They Come to Eat Our Green TShirts
by AZombieWrites
Summary: What should have been a simple case turns deadly for Detective Carlton Lassiter.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **They Come to Eat Our Green T-Shirts and Not Give us Milk  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Case File, Hurt/Comfort  
><strong>Summary: <strong>What should have been a simple case turns deadly for Detective Carlton Lassiter.  
><strong>Main Characters: <strong>Lassiter, O'Hara, Spencer, Gus, Vick and McNab.  
><strong>Disclaimers: <strong>All things Psych owned by Steve Franks and the USA network.  
><strong>Beta: <strong>My wonderful comma wrangling-ninja-meh monkey-whacking-spyentist virtual spouse**winks7985**.

**Thanks to: ** **lorency** for the story title and **tpena19** for information that helped create the plot/story.

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Detective Carlton Lassiter stood in front of Chief Vick's desk with a look of disbelief on his face while holding an open case file in a white knuckled grip. He quickly glanced over the information on the front page before his gaze returned to the stomach-turning crime scene photo clipped to the inside of the folder. The photo depicted a mutilated corpse. The lack of blood at the scene told Lassiter that the victim had been killed elsewhere, the body later dumped like a piece of garbage in its final resting place.

Lassiter shivered when he felt something cold touch the back of his neck, squeezing it gently before travelling slowly down his spine like a bead of sweat. He shifted his shoulders, hoping to dislodge the uncomfortable feeling, but he only succeeded in moving it to the pit of his stomach where it twisted, curled and settled itself in for a long ride. He knew the feeling was his childhood fear returning to taunt him with memories he would rather forget. The fear, now sitting like a lead weight in his stomach – much like his mother's homemade meatloaf – left him feeling nauseated. He grimaced in disgust, pulled his gaze away from the photo and looked at the woman sitting on the other side of the desk. Lassiter could read nothing in the poker-faced expression the Chief wore.

"I don't understand," said Lassiter, his tone conveying his confusion. He looked back down, seeing the picture, the words, but the information wasn't travelling to his brain, the switch controlling his ability to understand something as simple as what was in front of him, refused to move to the 'on' position. Hand him a plate of live worms, a fork, a bottle of ketchup and he would understand what was required of him but this, this case, he couldn't comprehend what he was supposed to be doing with it. The one thing he did understand was that he didn't like it, not at all.

"It's simple, Detective. It's your newest case."

"No, no." It had to be a joke. Lassiter shook his head as he tried to laugh at her words. The Chief continued to stare at him, her poker face unwavering. The fear rolled and settled back down in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and almost choked on the bile rising up into his throat. "Chief? This is a joke . . . right?"

"I don't joke, Detective," said Vick.

"Are you sure? Because you can't be serious about this." He couldn't believe that Vick would actually pull something like this, especially after his previous experience with the victim, an experience that had almost taken the lives of the department's two best detectives. Hadn't Vick learned anything from that particular case or did she just not care? She was a cop too . . . hadn't she been observant enough to see that doing this to him now was nothing short of torture? How could she not see that? Vick couldn't possibly be doing this to him now . . . not unless this was her idea of a practical joke. "You're kidding . . . right? I mean, you can see how this looks like a practical joke at my expense."

Vick glared at him. "Two victims. Both of them mutilated in the exact same way-"

"Chief, I wouldn't go so far as to call them victims. They're more like . . . No. This can't be real. You had someone Photoshop this didn't you?"

"Detective Lassiter, do you seriously think I would _joke_ about a crime as humourless as this?"

"Yes, I do . . . uh, Chief."

The expression on Vick's face changed, moving swiftly from controlled anger – a look Lassiter was very familiar with – to an expression that told him he was close to stepping over the line. Her eyes narrowed, color drained from her lips as she pressed them together. Vick's body was stiff with anger, the tendons in her neck stretched so tight, a tightrope walker could walk across them without fear of falling. She stood up so quickly her chair rolled back, hitting the wall behind her, the aggressive body language causing Lassiter to take a step back. "I'd advise you to proceed with extreme caution, Detective."

Lassiter nodded an apology, glanced back down at the photo and said, "I'm sure you could find someone more suited to this type of inquiry. Someone like Spencer. This is right up his alley." When he looked back up, he thought he saw a hint of a smile on Vick's face. It _was_ a joke. He felt the relief consume him, the tension flow from his body, as the fear drifted away. Lassiter felt as though he could almost jump for joy. He realized, with a feeling that confused him, he wouldn't have been this relieved if Vick had told him Spencer was no longer consulting for the SBPD. He smiled, closed the folder, placed it back on the desk and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Spencer put you up to this, didn't he? Decided to have a laugh at my expense. Another one of his make-the-head-detective-look-like-an-idiot games. It isn't funny."

"It's not a joke. You're my Head Detective . . . Detective. You've had the most experience with the victims involved. Therefore, you're the best man for the job." Vick picked up the folder, shoved it back toward Lassiter and said, "This is right up _your_ alley." She was quickly losing patience, her frustration at Lassiter's obvious attempts to doge the case adding to the anger that was already surrounding her like a cloak.

"But this has to be a joke." Lassiter took the folder and held it down by his right thigh. He could feel the fear returning with a vengeance and for a moment he was afraid he was going to throw up but thankfully the nausea passed. "Please, tell me that this really is a joke. I'll even laugh about it later." He tried to laugh but failed when all he could manage was a forced chuckle through clenched teeth.

"For the last time, I am _not_ kidding." Vick pulled her chair back to the desk, sat down, clasped her hands together on the desk and smiled at Lassiter. "Dr. Larson Isit's address is in the file, he's an expert in," she nodded toward the folder, "that particular type of mutilation. He's expecting you at three. That gives you and O'Hara plenty of time to look at the crime scene and speak to Mr. Flannery, owner of the Ranchero Ranch, where the victims were found. Mr. Flannery claims to have information that will lead you to the persons responsible."

"Is this a punishment?" Lassiter asked in disbelief. He knew he was wearing the same expression of scepticism he had worn at the age of six, when his mother had calmly informed him that there would be no Christmas because a truck had run over and killed Santa Claus. Then later that night, his dear sweet mother, had fed him venison for the first time, telling him that it was Dancer, and that if Rudolf had been there with his damn blinking nose, they wouldn't have died. "Did I do something to deserve this?" He waved the file in the air before dropping his arm back down by his side. "Is it because of what happened the last time I had to deal with-" Lassiter shook his head in disbelief before lowering his chin toward his chest. He closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath before looking back at Vick. "Are you punishing me because I discharged my weapon . . . _again_? I didn't make some stupid rookie mistake, Chief. What I did was justified. But if you think I wasn't justified in what I did, then please, just send me to another session with the department Psychologist. Please don't make me do this."

"This isn't a punishment, Detective Lassiter, and that particular incident has been dealt with. Now, you have a job to do, so I suggest you go and do it."

"Chief, I've got other open cases that need my attention. I can't just drop them to look into this."

"No more excuses, Detective." Vick pointed toward the door. "Go! Now!"

"Damn it. If this turns out to be a joke-" Lassiter snapped his mouth shut at the cold expression on Vick's face. He finally realized she wasn't kidding around. He felt the fear in his stomach double in size, the strength of it causing his hands to shake. Lassiter clenched his left fist, the fingernails digging into his palm. "This isn't a jo-"

"Leave."

Lassiter nodded once, turned on his heel and walked out of the office, feeling as though the weight of the world was sitting on his shoulders. Vick's voice followed him out the door.

"One more thing, Detective."

Lassiter turned back to stand in the doorway, an expression of hope on his face but the expression fell flat when he heard the words, "I want Mr. Spencer on the case with you." He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw and cursed the person responsible for bringing Shawn Spencer into his life. Yes, Spencer solved cases and he respected him for that, but Spencer did it in such a way that he irritated the crap out of Lassiter. A simple painkiller couldn't relieve the headache that was Shawn Spencer. The man was like a tumor only a scalpel could remove. Damn irritating pain-in-the-ass wasn't going to work with him on this case, Lassiter didn't care what the Chief said; no way in hell was he was calling that idiot. Lassiter knew he would never hear the end of it if Spencer found out about this, and the only way he would find out was if someone told him. He was more embarrassed, or was that afraid, of Spencer finding out than he was of his mother asking him for intimate details of his latest sexual encounter. He had made the mistake of mentioning it in an email to his mother a year ago, hoping that it would have gotten her off his back about finding a girl friend. She had responded – over a three-hour period – with one hundred and thirty four emails, demanding every little detail. He'd never been so embarrassed. If Spencer found out about this . . . it would be even worse.

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The white knuckled grip continued as Lassiter drove, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, the grip so tight he could feel it through his arms and up into his shoulders. His head ached as he struggled to keep the memories of a distant past from invading the present. The fear in his stomach continued to grow, pushing its way up into his chest, tightening it, making it harder for him to breathe through the anxiety. He wasn't accustomed to the fear he was now feeling; the last time he'd felt this way had been when he was a child, chased by demons on a weekly basis until rescued by his hero. But if he allowed himself to admit it, there had been that one night, almost three weeks ago, when the demons had returned to him in his dreams. There had been no hero to rescue him that night, the demons capturing him, forcing him to the ground with their cloven hooves, tearing him limb from limb with their horns. His body shuddered at the memory and the fear gnawed at his gut. Lassiter tightened his grip, his jaw clenched, and his foot pressed down on the accelerator. If he drove fast enough, he might leave the fear and the demons behind him, leaving them both stranded on the side of the road where they would find, then rip and tear their way into some other poor unsuspecting bastard.

"Carlton," O'Hara – unaware of the cold biting fear eating away at the man sitting next to her – was looking through a handful of photos, holding the crime scene images in her fingers for a few seconds before placing them face down on her lap. The last two photos were of the victim when she was still alive. She held the picture up, the gentle features in the image almost making her smile– almost. O'Hara could no longer look at the victims as she used to; what she had once considered cute, now seen as something ugly, something that brought a touch of fear to her heart and O'Hara didn't scare easily. "Please tell me this is a joke."

Lassiter took his eyes off the road, glanced toward O'Hara and caught a glimpse of the latest victim's photo – the before image, her large brown eyes staring back at the camera – in his partner's hands. The sight of the image was like a kick to the chest, his breath catching in his throat. Memories tore through him, stabbing at his core, blinding him when the darkness pressed against the edges of his vision. Lassiter tore his eyes from the photo and back onto the road, forcing himself to relax his grip on the wheel in an attempt to allow the tension to flow from his neck and shoulders. He took slow deep breaths as he blocked the images from his mind. He was grateful he hadn't seen that particular photo – that one and others hidden behind the last sheet of information in the file – in Chief Vick's office; he would have been humiliated if she had seen his reaction. Maybe it would have just been easier to tell her the truth about his relationship with the victims.

Another deep breath and he thought he was ready to answer. "It's not a joke."

O'Hara took one last glance at the mutilated corpse before returning the photos to the folder. She clasped her hands on top of the folder, pursed her lips and then twisted her upper body so she could face her partner, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

"Are we being punished?"

"My guess . . . yes, we're being punished."

Lassiter pressed down on the accelerator, hitting the horn with the palm of his hand as he began to pass a slower vehicle. When the driver of the vehicle sped up, making it difficult for Lassiter to return to the correct side of the road, he considered using the opportunity to delay the inevitable. He decided the delay would only last a few minutes, unless the driver had a record or outstanding warrants in which case the delay could last for hours. Lassiter turned on the siren, smiled at the shock appearing on the old woman's face but changed his mind, turning the siren off, when O'Hara slapped his upper arm and told him to grow up. He glared at the driver who was now slowing down and becoming a receding dot in his rear-view mirror. Lassiter then turned his glare on O'Hara in an attempt to make a point but she was no longer a rookie detective; she glared back at him.

"Fine," said Lassiter as he returned his gaze to the road ahead of him.

Silence filled the car and Lassiter hated every second of it, childhood memories taking advantage, filling the empty silence with the screams of a ten-year-old Carlton Lassiter as he ran from his demons. He would have spoken if he thought he could manage it without his voice cracking. Thankfully, O'Hara broke the silence, sending the screams to another part of his brain where he knew they would fester and grow, waiting for the chance to return.

"The Chief does remember that the last time we dealt with one of these-"

"Fatalities, deceased, departed, lifeless corpses," said Lassiter as his white knuckled grip on the steering wheel returned. He didn't want to give them a name just yet and he didn't feel the necessary emotions to call them victims. Lassiter knew O'Hara would be shaking her head, a frown directed toward him. He didn't care; too wrapped up in his own thoughts and emotions, knowing that in only a matter of minutes he was going to be face to face with his childhood demons.

"-victims," she corrected slowly, then added, "we almost died."

"They're not victims and yes she knows."

"What if the same thing happens and you have to use your weapon again?"

"I'll lose my job," said Lassiter as he leaned forward to look at a passing sign, shaking his head, swearing silently when he realized the sign didn't say what he wanted it to say – 'you are lost, please return to Santa Barbara and try again'.

"Carlton, I'm sure that won't happen."

"After the last incident, I was told that if I did anything that stupid again, I'll lose my job."

"It wasn't a stupid thing to do. We could have died that day. You saved my life and your own."

"I don't think that's going to make a difference," Lassiter hesitated, glancing once more at his partner – who was still staring at him – before continuing, "If it happens today, O'Hara, you'll have to . . ." he couldn't finish, the words had stuck in his throat at the thought of it happening again. If it did, surely this time he would suffer a massive heart attack and be put out of his misery.

"A shot to the head, right."

Lassiter smiled, he couldn't help it. "I was going to say run like hell, but a kill shot, right between the eyes would work even better. It'll be quick and I won't feel any pain."

O'Hara rolled her eyes and as she did so, she noticed what appeared to be a very fit young man jogging along the side of the highway. She bit down on her bottom lip, waiting until they passed so she could see what he looked like from the front. After getting a nice eyeful and a wave from the jogger, she looked back at Lassiter and returned to the conversation. "I meant the victim, Carlton."

"I am the victim here, O'Hara, not them. If it happens again, you shoot me first and that's an order."

"Carlton..." Her tone said, _don't be an idiot. I'm not going to shoot you_.

"Fine, shoot them first. But I'm telling you, O'Hara, another incident like the last one and Vick will take it out of my hide before she fires me."

"I've got your back, Carlton."

Lassiter quickly glanced at his partner, took his right hand off the steering wheel, and tapped his forehead. "If you've got my back then you'll shoot me first, here, right between the eyes. Me first then the . . ." He waved his hand in the air before returning it to grip the steering wheel.

"Victim," O'Hara supplied.

"O'Hara, call them the victim one more time and I'm going to-"

"Then what should I call them?"

"The spawn of Satan because that's what they are."

O'Hara looked at her partner, the crease of a frown between her eyes. "Carlton, you really are terrified of them, aren't you?"

"Of Satan's spawn? Yes, I am and I have a very good reason to be afraid, O'Hara. They kill people."

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After two wrong turns, and one set of very simple directions – which turned out to be not only complicated but also incorrect – given to him by an old man Lassiter wanted to arrest for disturbing his sanity, they finally found – accidently stumbled upon – the crime scene. Rolling green pastures, blue sky and large oak trees, all surrounded by miles of white fencing; the yellow crime scene tape at odds with nature.

Lassiter, hands still clenching the steering wheel, took in the sight before him as he slowed the car, bringing it to a stop on the side of a dirt road riddled with potholes behind an old beat up red pickup truck, and said, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

Within a cordoned off area – shaped like a misguided rectangle – at least fifteen yards away from the fence in a paddock littered with cow patties, a small make-shift wooden cross – painted white – stabbed the Earth, its base piercing the ground below. The cross stood tall in an effort to reach the heavens, its wooden arms stretching outward like a grandmother waiting for that elusive hug. At the base of the cross, lay a colorful bouquet of wild flowers. A man, whom Lassiter assumed to be Flannery, knelt in front of the cross, head bowed, shoulders slumped and his hands clasped in front of him, as though he were silently praying for the latest victim.

Lassiter wanted to laugh at the sight but he knew deep down that if he did laugh, he wouldn't be able to stop; the laughter would quickly turn into a hysterical gut wrenching scream of frustration. A scream that would not only embarrass himself, but his partner also – because seriously, it would make Spencer and Guster's screams sound manly in comparison. A fact easily proven by showing Lassiter a large snow globe on a dark and stormy night.

O'Hara leaned forward, ignoring the file as it fell from her lap to the floor, pushing against her seatbelt so she could see past Lassiter who was blocking her view. "Wow," said O'Hara. Her gaze shifted, taking in her partner's face before returning to the man in the field. "Are you sure someone hasn't set us up for a practical joke? Shawn's been trying to get you back ever since you embarrassed him in front of that bimbo with breasts the size of Mount Rushmore."

"Spencer's only intentions with that woman _were_ to climb Mount Rushmore. I didn't want her to be disappointed when he failed miserably."

O'Hara frowned and sat back, her gaze shifting once more to look at her partner, this time taking an extra few seconds to study his appearance. Lassiter's face was pale, his cheeks flushed, a light film of sweat lined his forehead and the edges of his hairline, the hair at the back of his neck clinging to his skin. His shoulders were stiff, arms straight, fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard she was afraid the knuckles would erupt and break through the skin. She frowned, suddenly worried.

"Carlton? Are you sure you're okay to do this?"

Lassiter didn't answer, not with words. He hesitated, not sure, if he _was_ able to do this. The fear in his gut had quadrupled in size, his chest so tight he feared that at any moment he would no longer be able to breathe. A cold sweat had embraced him, causing more than one shiver to run through him head to toe, leaving a tingling sensation in muscles that felt as though they were already cramping, withdrawing away from the fear consuming him. Damn it! He could do this. He had his partner to back him up and more importantly, he had his weapon. Lassiter removed the Glock from his holster, ejected the magazine, reassured himself that it was still fully loaded and then slammed it back home until it clicked. He pulled the slide firmly back and released it, chambering a round, his gun now cocked and ready to fire.

"I am now."

"Carlton, you don't need to chamber a round, there aren't-"

"Always be prepared, O'Hara," said Lassiter.

O'Hara nodded before reaching across and giving his forearm a quick but gentle squeeze. "Just remember if anything does happen I've got your back."

He nodded and took a deep breath, his long fingers first freeing his seat belt and then brushing against the door handle. Another deep breath and he opened the door. Lassiter grimaced in disgust when the smell of cow shit assaulted his senses. He gagged; the stench a reminder of something he had feared since he was a child. His knees suddenly felt weak, his stomach fragile but another gentle touch from O'Hara – this time on his shoulder – gave him the confidence to move forward, even though a small child-like voice screamed at him to stay in the car. He slammed the door shut and leaned back against the car, his gun held down by his thigh, the barrel pointing toward the ground. He just needed a few more seconds, a small amount of time that would be enough for him to gain some control over his trembling knees and pounding heart. He wondered for a moment how a smell could bring it all back. He felt like he was ten years old again. For a brief ludicrous second, he wanted to search for his idol, a larger than life hero rushing toward him, arms out ready to lift him into the air and to safety. Lassiter regretted that he had to rely on himself to deal with a phobia that had risen from its grave the moment his gaze fell upon the image of a mutilated corpse. Yes, he had his partner and she would support him as she always did, but this was different. This was emotional, not physical. As much as he would like her to, O'Hara couldn't tear the fear from his body and beat it into submission, having it begging for her mercy and his forgiveness.

O'Hara got out of the car, moving quickly and carefully around the back of the vehicle to stand beside Lassiter, her shoulder brushing softly against his arm to remind him he wasn't alone. She could feel him shaking and reached out for his hand, changing her mind before her fingers touched his.

"You can do this, Carlton," said O'Hara. "We talk to the guy, five minutes tops, find out what he knows and then we leave. If it comes down to it, we'll take him back to the station and talk to him there."

Lassiter nodded, knowing his partner had spoken but not hearing what she had said, her words disrupted, torn apart and tossed into the wind before they could reach his ears. He reached up and roughly rubbed the back of his left hand against his forehead, wiping at the sweat escaping from his pores. As he lowered his arm, the hand passing his line of sight, he couldn't help but notice that it was trembling. He formed a fist, the knuckles white, the muscles in his forearm pulled tight. The tremble grew into a tremor, coursing up his arm and into his shoulders, spreading quickly until it felt as though his toes were shaking in his shoes. When his breathing became difficult, he pulled at his tie, stretching it until it no longer felt as though someone were choking him. Undoing the top two buttons of his shirt with a shaking hand was a task almost as difficult as walking with one leg; in his frustration he almost ripped the buttons from his shirt. Then his world titled, the odd angle making him feel dizzy. He was grateful that at least his knees hadn't betrayed him because if he fell flat on his face now, he would not be happy.

He felt the fear shift, reaching out toward his chest with tentative fingers, softly brushing against already frayed nerves. His heart pounded hard against his ribcage and a dull ache, quickly turning sharp, dug into his chest and he looked down, searching for his heart, which he was sure, had exploded through bone, muscle and skin. There was no blood, no shattered pieces of his heart. It all became clear to him in a matter of seconds. He was actually having a panic attack. A heart attack would have been more preferable, at least then, he wouldn't have to live through the humiliation of a panic attack.

But damn it all to hell. He was Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective of the SBPD; he didn't have panic attacks – at least, not since he was ten. Deep slow breaths . . . in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . calm . . . the . . . fuck . . . down. The words repeated themselves, pulling his attention away from the attack, calming him, forcing the tremors to subside. When it became easier to breath, he – metaphorically speaking – took his own balls in hand, pushed the fear down to a more manageable level somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach and took one-step forward. The feel of his partner, still by his side, keeping close, willing to give her life to protect him, just as he would give his life for her, allowed him to gather what little courage he felt he had left – which wasn't enough to fill his favourite coffee mug. He took a second step, and then another and another until he reached the fence, which he quickly grabbed and held onto.

O'Hara rested her left hand on the fence, close to her partner's, her right hand gently gripping the butt of the Glock clipped to the back of her trousers, which she was prepared to use to stop any threat toward Lassiter or herself. "You know, I'm surprised the Chief didn't ask Shawn for help on this one. This is right up his alley."

The end of O'Hara's statement caught Lassiter by surprise and he turned his head to look at her. For a moment, in a split second of doubt, he wondered if this _was_ a practical joke and O'Hara – like Vick and Spencer – was in on it. He shook the thoughts from his mind, flinging them into no-man's land where they shrivelled up and died when his gaze found her right hand resting on the butt of her gun, her body language telling him that she was ready and willing to use it. Lassiter turned back and watched the man kneeling in front of the cross. He took a deep breath and searched for the fear that no longer gripped his chest like a vice. It was sitting, once again, in the pit of his stomach where he knew it would wait – with an acquired patience – to rise and attack his sanity once more. He could do this. He had to do this. But if he was going to do it, he had to do it now.

"Mr. Flannery!" Lassiter yelled before he could change his mind. The sound of his own voice, loud and stronger than he expected, was a welcomed sound, boosting his confidence to a higher level. When he had opened the case file in Vick's office, both his confidence and courage had fallen rapidly.

When the man turned around and waved at the Detectives, Lassiter growled through gritted teeth, his impatience and anxiety quickly turning to anger. He embraced the familiar emotion as he had embraced his wife during their first three years of marriage. His wife had felt smothered in that particular embrace, accusing him of not allowing her to breathe. Anger wasn't his wife. The anger could breathe, and with each breath, it grew stronger.

"Detective Lassiter and O'Hara, SBPD!"

"Feeling better?" O'Hara asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Lassiter glared at her.

"Of course you are," said O'Hara.

The owner of the Ranchero Ranch was more round than tall, his face tanned, wrinkled like a French Mastiff, probably even more so. A moustache, gray in color, sat below a nose that had been broken at least twice during his fifty-three-years of life. He wore dark blue overalls, a pale blue shirt, black rubber work boots, and a hat – so dirty and sweaty you would not be able to tell its color without washing it first – to keep the sun off his face- too little too late.

Flannery began to walk slowly toward the fence, his hands in his pockets, his head in the clouds and whistling the theme to what Lassiter thought was the television show 'Hawaii Five O'. The Rancher stopped, stepped sideways to avoid a small pile of cow manure, and then continued walking, his pace slower than it had been. When Flannery finally reached the fence, he was wearing a smile so large, so smug like, that Lassiter wanted nothing more than to remove it with a closed fist, to throw Flannery to the ground and rub his face in a pile of cow shit. O'Hara was right; he was feeling better.

"Took you long enough," said Flannery. "You got lost didn't you? Not surprising though, neither of you look very smart."

Lassiter was about to reply with one of his more scathing remarks – a remark that would probably result in a complaint filed against him. He was sure that if a complaint was made during this particular investigation, Vick would force him to give 'Stranger Danger' lectures to small children who would rather cling to his trousers with chubby, sticky fingers than listen to anything he said. For the next six months at least. His partner, his wonderful partner who knew he was about to put his size twelve foot in his mouth, interrupted with, "Our apologies, Mr. Flannery, but we had to stop for coffee and donuts." Lassiter could have sworn Flannery's smile dropped faster than a three hundred pound man did after suffering a massive heart attack. Lassiter's chest swelled with pride, his mouth twitched, wanting to smile at the look on Flannery's face. Taking on O'Hara as his junior partner had been the best decision he had made in a long time. If someone told you the Chief had forced him to take on the young, fresh-faced detective as a partner, Lassiter would tell you that it was an embellished half-truth.

"Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?" asked Flannery as he removed his hands from his pockets, pointing the forefinger of his right hand toward O'Hara. "And I don't think I like your attitude, Missy!"

Lassiter wanted to rip the man's finger off and then force-feed it to him through his ass but Flannery put the hand back into his pocket before Lassiter had the chance to act.

"You should have been here an hour ago. This is a serious matter. It's not the ordinary, every Saturday night cow tipping adventure."

Lassiter released his grip on the fence, took his sunglasses off – blinking at the bright sunlight – and placed them in his jacket pocket. He then clenched his jaw and said, in a tone lacking emotion, "Mr. Flannery, the Santa Barbara Police Department takes cow mutilations very seriously."

"Uh, huh," grunted Flannery. "I'm sure you do, Detective . . . what was your name again . . . Assiter?" Lassiter, ready to reply with a verbal response that would make his own mother blush, felt his partner's hand on his elbow, the small touch keeping him grounded, calming him. But the anger continued to stir, mixing with the fear, creating a feeling that left him with a need to throw up. "That's why you rushed out here," Flannery continued, ignorant of the emotions and body language emanating from Lassiter, "when Martha was murdered, her guts and genitals removed because they want to gain knowledge about how we work."

Lassiter frowned, his eyes narrowing as his curiosity grew above the level of anger and fear – by perhaps a quarter of a centimetre – and knowing that he would regret it, asked, "Who's Martha? And who in the hell are 'they'?"

"Martha was my cow," Flannery looked toward Lassiter. "You're supposed to be here to investigate her murder! Didn't your Chief . . . what's her name . . . Hick, tell you anything about what's been happening around here over the last couple of weeks? Anything at all? Hey!" Flannery once again pulled his hand out of his pocket, this time clicking his fingers at Lassiter. "Are you even listening to what I'm saying, or should I be speaking to your girl here?"

O'Hara turned her head, pulling her gaze away from Flannery, to look at her partner. She didn't like what she saw. Lassiter was about two seconds away from jumping over the fence in a need to confront Flannery and bring him back down to a level that held more respect for officers of the law and humanity in general. Her partner's soft curse of, "Son of a bitch-" had O'Hara reaching for his left arm, ready to say something to calm him down but something in Lassiter's face changed, his gaze shifting focus to a point just over and beyond Flannery's left shoulder. O'Hara frowned, turned her head back. There was nothing there.

"What are you looking at?" Flannery looked over his shoulder and seeing nothing he turned back, ready to let Lassiter know what the hell he thought about the Detective but his mouth dropped open in shock when he saw the gun. Lassiter had raised his right arm, resting it and the Glock on top of the fence. Afraid that Lassiter was going to shoot him, Flannery quickly stepped back, reaching out with his arms, the palms of his hands facing Lassiter as though he thought he could deflect a bullet with flesh and bone. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Ignoring Flannery, O'Hara turned back to her partner. There was fear etched into Lassiter's features, the expression suddenly transforming into one of confusion, his blue eyes darting back and forth, searching for something that wasn't there. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, squeezing it, feeling the small tremors running through him. She released her grip when he tried to pull his arm away.

"Carlton? What's wrong?"

Lassiter felt like an idiot, like a man on the verge of a mental breakdown, suffering from hallucinations more suited to a person travelling through a vivid, PCP induced alternative reality. If he saw a pink elephant walking past his line of sight now, he would drive to the Santa Barbara Sanctuary Psychiatric Center and admit himself for an extended stay. Maybe that's what he needed right now, a pair of blue pyjamas, a blue robe, blue slippers and a young nurse with long legs dressed in a very short uniform . . .

"I thought I saw a cow."

O'Hara frowned. "Carlton, there's nothing there."

Lassiter's back was straight, rigid with tension, fear and confusion. He released the breath that had caught in his throat and dragged in a huge gulp of air, the noise so loud it sounded like he had snorted with laughter. He guzzled oxygen into lungs that felt like a dry desert, quenching their thirst for fresh air. When he felt they were satisfied, he turned his gaze to his partner and said, "I know. It's just that I thought . . . I know." His head turned, his gaze drifting slowly, left to right. The only thing he saw was Flannery and a marked memorial for a dead mutilated cow. "I know."

Flannery, realising that he wasn't going to have his skull blown apart, dropped his arms by his side, his hands smacking against his thighs and said, "You thought you saw a cow? There aren't any cows around here. They're all up at the North paddock, five miles away. And what the fuck were you planning on doing if there was a cow? Shoot it with your stupid little gun?"

Lassiter narrowed his gaze at Flannery. "There aren't any cows in the immediate area?"

"No," said Flannery.

"And there's no chance of one just showing up?"

"What? No! A cow isn't just going to show up."

Lassiter thought he would feel relieved, that the anxiety would rush from his body so quickly it would leave him feeling like a deflated balloon. It didn't happen. Even though he now knew a cow would not be dawdling or stampeding into his line of sight at any given moment, he still felt bloated with fear, like a woman retaining water during her period. The thought of a stampeding cow sent a cold shiver through him, its touch running gently along his spine, spreading quickly to his limbs, leaving a cold dull ache in his bones. He realized the fear had always been there, it had been hiding, lying in wait for the opportunity to return to torment him; that it didn't just feed on the present, it also fed on the past, on the memory of a deep-seated phobia that had attached itself to his body like a parasite thirty years ago.

If his mother were here, she would be telling him to suck it up, be a man and just deal with it. She had never been the type of mother that embraced her children when they were hurt – physically or emotionally – and she sure as hell never kissed it better; his mother was the type that removed the bandaid very slowly. But for once – and he hoped it was only going to be the once – he had to agree with his mother. He needed to be a man, to deal with his fear as a forty-year-old man would, with courage and a determination that would rival Sergeant Thomas 'Gunny' Highway.

"One isn't going to escape the North paddock, come down here and-"

"No, one isn't and what is it with you and the need to know if one of my cows is just going to appear?" Flannery tilted his head to the side like a dog listening to a sound it doesn't understand – he not only looked like a French Mastiff, he also seemed to act like one. "Has it got something to do with the investigation? Do you want to question one of them, ask it to give a witness statement?"

At first, Lassiter had thought Flannery was an asshole angry at the world and the people around him. Now he knew better. Flannery wasn't just an asshole; he was an asshole with a very small penis – no doubt missing both testicles as well – and using his personality to try to compensate for what he was physically lacking. He was also sure that underneath that hat, Flannery was bald like a featherless bird.

"No. It has nothing to do with-" Lassiter sighed and shook his head. He didn't have the energy to argue with a man suffering from 'terminal penis envy'. "I don't like cows."

"You don't like cows?"

"No. I don't like cows."

"Who the hell doesn't like cows?"

O'Hara, once again came to Lassiter's rescue, "He doesn't like cows because they terrify me," she lied. Although it wasn't a complete lie because she now held a respectful fear toward them.

"You don't like cows," Flannery stared at Lassiter before moving his gaze to O'Hara, "and you're terrified of them. What kind of cops are you? You'd probably run screaming if a cat hissed at you?"

"Mr. Flannery, I will seriously consider giving that some contemplation."

"Give what contemplation?" Flannery's gaze bounced back to Lassiter.

"To run screaming if a cat hissed at me ... instead of just shooting it."

Flannery narrowed his eyes, his gaze staring at Lassiter's Glock from beneath droopy eyelids, and said, "Are you going to put that away?"

"My gun?" asked Lassiter.

"Yeah."

"No."

O'Hara rolled her eyes and shook her head in bewilderment. In an attempt to gain some control over what she considered a 'pissing contest' growing between Lassiter and Flannery, she said, "Mr. Flannery, we were told that you had information about who may have mutilated your livestock."

Flannery tried to pull his gaze away from Lassiter, but it kept moving back. "Yeah, I know . . . but it's not who, it's what." He straightened his back and his shoulders as if preparing himself for an attack and finally managed to look at O'Hara. "Aliens mutilated one of my bulls and one of my cows."

"Crap," said Lassiter.

Flannery laughed, the sound betraying the emotions written on his face; sadness, fear and anger. "Your boss really didn't tell you anything did she?"

"I thought it was a practical joke."

"You said the Santa Barbara Police Department took cow mutilations seriously."

"They do. I don't. As far as I'm concerned, they got what they deserved."

"Why would aliens mutilate your animals?" asked O'Hara.

"Because they're bored and have nothing else to do with their lives," said Flannery. "How in the hell would I know why they're mutilating my stock. It's your job to find out the why and to stop them from doing it-"

"Mr. Flannery," Lassiter held up his hand to stop Flannery from continuing, "you're _actually_ trying to tell us that Aliens are responsible for the mutilation of your cow?"

"And the bull. You know what I find strange?" Flannery didn't wait for a response before continuing. "The Aliens also took their eyelashes. What the fuck would an Alien want with the eyelashes of a cow or even a bull for that matter?"

Lassiter didn't like the direction this conversation was heading, which was toward crazyville, just left of insanity; it was not only absurd but also insanely idiotic. He was going to have to visit a shrink after this, because of not only the fear, but also the preposterous stupidity of the case. Lassiter rolled his eyes and shook his head, regretting it when a small bout of dizziness hit him. He moved his left foot back, shifting his stance to correct his balance before he could fall down. He hated this, hated that the fear was now controlling him physically as well as emotionally, hated it with a passion that wasn't strong enough to deal with the anxiety, to kick it to the curb and crush it beneath his foot. And to top it all off, Flannery was claiming Aliens were mutilating his livestock. This had to be a practical joke; either that or Flannery was mentally insane, killing his own animals and claiming Aliens were responsible just to gain some attention.

"If you ask me, this entire case is a load of crap and we should be calling someone to let them know that we've got an asshole that has flown over the cuckoo's nest."

Flannery moved quickly toward the fence, stopping at least two feet away, keeping the fence as a protective barrier between himself and the Detective. "Who the hell are you calling an asshole . . . asshole!"

Lassiter stepped forward, his own six foot frame now leaning against the fence, the top railing biting painfully into his chest. "Do you really want me to climb over this fence and-"

"Detective! Take a breath and calm down." O'Hara also moved quickly, pushing her way in between Lassiter and the fence, placing the palm of her hand against his chest, forcing him to take a few steps back.

Lassiter snorted; the sound so full of disgust it came out as something ugly. "O'Hara, we're done here, let's go." He took his sunglasses from his jacket pocket, put them on, turned and began to walk back toward his car. O'Hara turned with Lassiter, walking beside him.

"Wait!" Flannery reached for the fence, climbing it, stumbling over the top railing and falling to the other side. He got up, brushed the grass and dirt from the backside of his overalls and walked quickly after Lassiter and O'Hara. He grabbed Lassiter's arm, pulling the Detective around so they were once again face-to-face.

Lassiter looked down at the hand gripping his upper arm. "Let go . . . before I shoot you," he snarled in a menacing tone.

O'Hara placed her hand against Lassiter's right forearm, pressing down, keeping his weapon by his side. With a calm, controlled voice she only used on criminals and her nephews, she said, "Carlton."

Through gritted teeth, Lassiter corrected his threat, "Let go . . . please . . . before I shoot you."

Flannery let go, used his fingers to brush away the crease he'd left in the sleeve of Lassiter's jacket and stepped back. In a tone that held a tint of fear, he asked, "Don't you want to know how I know Aliens killed my stock?"

"No."

"You know, your Chief is going to hear about this!"

"When you talk to her, make sure you don't call her 'Chief Hick' because that would just piss her off."

"I'm going to put in a complaint!"

"You do that, Mr Fuckery," said Lassiter.

Tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

The last thing Lassiter had expected to see when he stepped into the cold, sterile, white room was a dead mutilated cow lying on the middle of the floor with one of its lifeless eyes staring back at him. It lay on its left side, a thick clear plastic sheet beneath it ready to capture the melting fatty tissues, to keep the foul smelling fluids off the clean white tiled floor. Surely, the carcass wasn't going to be here long enough to reach that stage of decomposition. The hide was almost entirely brown with a patch of white running from the forehead to the muzzle. The head was tilted upward, as though someone had pressed their fingers against its jaw, pushing until the back of its head was almost touching its neck. The legs were in a position that made Lassiter think the thing had been in the process of running away from something terrifying when it died, killed instantly. The entire udder was gone; its stomach lay bared for everyone to see. It reminded Lassiter of some of the crime scenes he'd been to during his career. Human victims torn apart, organs removed and displayed in some sort of religious ritual exhibit. The only difference being he didn't give a shit about a dead cow.

Lassiter stepped back, his movements slow and stiff. He stopped when he felt O'Hara behind him, her hand pressing against the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades, pushing him forward. He had no choice but to move further into the room. Four long hesitant strides and he stopped, his body refusing to get any closer to the animal. O'Hara stepped around him, her shoulder brushing against his left arm as she moved passed him, her voice soft, confident and supportive as she spoke, "It's dead, Carlton."

"Whatever gave you that idea, O'Hara?" Lassiter ignored the look sent his way via a pair of sharp daggers. He was being an asshole, which wasn't unusual for him. He knew it and he knew it was wrong to take it out on O'Hara. But he needed an outlet, even if only for a moment and he knew O'Hara could and would take it, up to a certain point. Then she would verbally bitch slap him before force feeding him his balls with a side of fries, reminding him of why he sometimes actually feared her – in a respectful way of course – but thankfully, not as much as he feared his mother. Lassiter watched in fascination as O'Hara moved closer, her body language showing no fear as she knelt down and looked intently into what was left of the dead cow's innards.

"This must be Martha," said O'Hara as she reached out with her hand, her forefinger extended. Lassiter had to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from warning her not to touch it. O'Hara's touch was soft at first, and then she pressed harder against the dead animal's rear ribs, first with one finger, then with the palm of her hand. Why? Lassiter called it morbid fascination. A moment of insanity. A temporary breakdown of her mental facilities. Something inside the cow shifted and slithered its way free, falling to the floor at O'Hara's feet, landing with a soft splat. It looked like a small portion of intestine, a fat worm lazing in the sun. "What I don't understand is how a Veterinarian becomes an expert in cow mutilation."

Lassiter shrugged, "Circumcised when he was a kid?"

The cow farted, the beginning of collecting gases escaping and that was when Lassiter's sense of smell decided to take notice of the stench filling the room. The odour had crept up on him, surprising him with its strength. He made the mistake of taking a deep breath in an attempt to identify the smell. The odour hit him hard enough to cause him to gag, his mouth filling with saliva. As he swallowed, Lassiter's expression of apprehension morphed into one of disgust, his nostrils clenching and grimacing in response to the smell. The rotten odour now hung in the air like a heavy cloak, pressing down on him, his back bending with the weight of it. Lassiter knew it would cling to his clothing, ruining it. Like every other murder scene with a rotting corpse, he would walk away from the scene with the stench of death clinging to his suit. He raised his forearm, using it to block the odour and breathed in through his nose, the smell of his local dry cleaner's fabric softener – an industrial strength mixture of vanilla and almonds – a refreshing change of aroma.

"There's something wrong," said O'Hara as she stood up and stepped away from the carcass. "The smell isn't right."

Taking another breath, this one smaller than the last, Lassiter realized O'Hara was right. There was the tainted smell of death but the animal lying in front of him hadn't decomposed enough to smell _this_ bad. The foul smelling gases, very attractive to a variety of insects – including beetles, mites and wasps – wouldn't be alluring enough for their taste buds until at least the fourth day of decomposition. In this sealed room, it would take even longer. Mixed with the faint odour of death was something else. Something not right, an odour he couldn't recognize– a smell that was once again lacking in strength, making breathing through the nose more bearable. Lassiter couldn't understand it. It was as though the smell was shifting suddenly from one mood to another, the smell strong one moment, weak the next.

The door behind him was still open, perhaps allowing a foreign smell into the room– a breeze causing the odour's violent mood swings. An explanation that was simple and far less complicated than alien excrement. He turned and walked back to the door, swatting at a bloated fly as it passed by his ear – buzzing a merry tune – on its way to what the fly probably thought would be some very nice places to lay its eggs. He closed the door and turned back but hesitated when it came to moving further back into the room.

"Carlton, it's dead. There's no reason for you to be-"

Lassiter shook his head and said, "Don't."

Instead of thinking, Lassiter acted. He quickly moved forward and knelt down, moving his right leg an inch to the right before his knee could land on the small piece of intestine, popping it like a pimple. He'd never been this close to a cow before, unless it was a steak, medium rare, on his dinner plate. The cow was dead. He shouldn't be afraid of a dead cow. He wasn't afraid of a dead cow. It wasn't as though it were going to get up and start chasing him around the room, tripping on its trailing intestines. Lassiter felt O'Hara's hand on his shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze before she knelt down next to him. He allowed the momentary touch, only because he'd been such an ass earlier.

"Do you recognize the smell?" Lassiter asked before she could say anything, words of sympathy, support, assurance; words he wanted to hear, words he needed to hear, but he wouldn't or couldn't admit it.

O'Hara breathed in deeply through her nose, the noise loud and grotesque in the silence, her face screwing up in a show of disgust; the smell had once again grown in strength. "It reminds me of that new cologne you tried last month."

Ignoring the comment, knowing that his partner was trying to goad him out a mood instigated by anxiety, Lassiter turned his head slightly to stare at her. His silence, an indication that he wasn't willing to take part in a game of words, caused O'Hara to move back on track.

She sighed, consenting defeat but Lassiter knew she wasn't going to let it go that easily. He was sure that at a later time, she would attempt to bring the subject back up, but his stubbornness, his pride, would have her speaking to him as a parent speaks to a misbehaving child.

"No . . ." O'Hara hesitated.

"But?"

"I don't know," O'Hara shrugged. "For a minute there, it seemed familiar but now . . . I don't know. What about you? Do you recognize it?"

Lassiter was about to answer that he had no idea when the door behind them opened. The sudden intrusion surprised Lassiter, causing him to turn, the heel of his shoe catching on the plastic beneath him. His balance shifted and he knew he was going to fall. His partner, now standing, her back turned to him, was unaware of his predicament; he was about to fall face first into the intestines of a dead cow. With no other choice available to him, Lassiter reached out with his hand to stop his fall. He grimaced in disgust when he first felt the hide of the animal against the palm of his hand, and then he threw up a little into his mouth when the tips of his fingers touched what could only be the animal's intestines. He gagged on the small amount of vomit, forcing himself to swallow it, the bile burning his throat on its way back down. It could have been worse though, he could have been drowning in the gut of the cow right about now. Lassiter decided that if he made it through to the other side of this case with his mind intact, he was going to – in the privacy of his own home – partake in his favourite bottle of Scotch until his was mind numbingly drunk.

"Son of a bitch!"

Lassiter pushed himself away from the carcass and stood up a little too quickly, leaving his body feeling like it weighed a ton. His vision dimmed and everything started to go black and when his body swayed an inch to the left, back toward the cow, he feared he was going to faint. A hand around his waist keeping him steady and on his feet left him feeling humiliated and without thinking about what it would mean to his partner, Lassiter lashed out and pushed her away. O'Hara stumbled but was able to catch her balance before she fell. Lassiter felt his face flush with guilt. His humiliation grew when he realized the person who had entered the room had seen his reaction. He wanted to apologise to O'Hara but for some stupid stubborn reason – only his mother could explain – he couldn't bring himself to apologise for what he'd done. Instead, he turned his attention to regaining his composure before he faced the person who had entered the room.

"Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara?"

Lassiter cursed, the word hidden amongst his quick shallow breaths. The few seconds he needed to remove the humiliation from his face and calm his breathing no longer existed. He turned to find a man, equal with McNab in height and stature and looking remarkably like Doris Day, standing in the open doorway; blond hair, blue eyes, a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth and a hairstyle that was more suited to Donald Trump. And there, behind the Doris Day look-a-like – like a nightmare from a Stephen King novel – stood Spencer and Guster.

Spencer, damn him, was wearing a smug grin that threatened to split his face in two and Lassiter wondered, for a mouse-caught-in-a-neck-breaking-trap-heartbeat-stopping-moment, if Spencer knew about his fear of cows. He frowned, confused when Spencer's right hand drifted toward his temple, his fingers waving in a frantic manner, his grin actually spreading even wider and at that moment Lassiter understood; Spencer knew. Damn it to hell, the idiot knew about his fear of cows. But how did he know? Apart from O'Hara, no one else knew. Not Vick, not his mother, and not even Hank; he had never wanted his childhood hero to think any less of him. Only O'Hara knew the depth of his phobia and surely, his partner, the person he trusted most in this world, wouldn't betray his trust by telling Spencer.

Spencer continued to stare at him, his green eyes unwavering, and his shit eating grin unbreakable. Lassiter remembered the times his partner _had_ gone behind his back, feeding Spencer information he had told her not to give. However, that had been in the early days of their partnership. Of course, O'Hara still fed Spencer information – the man's appetite for case details never ending – but now it was with Lassiter's knowledge.

But this? Would O'Hara do this? Would she tell Spencer about his fear?

No, O'Hara wouldn't do that to him . . . she wouldn't . . . no . . .

Lassiter wanted to blink, to turn his eyes away but he couldn't, his gaze drawn to Spencer's own. Spencer, a shadow of amusement on his face, stared back, his gaze steadfast. Then Spencer did something that shocked Lassiter, upending the Detective's game plan until it was almost sitting on its head, disorientated and confused, feeling like it had just come off a tilt-a-whirl that had spun out of control. Spencer's expression of amusement turned into one of understanding. It reminded Lassiter of his grandmother, the way she use to look at him when he, as a young child, would arrive on her doorstep every second Sunday of the month dressed as though he were going to the undertaker's; black suit, white shirt, black tie, his hair slicked back, fingernails pruned, eyebrows plucked and balls scrubbed. He'd felt like an idiot then and he felt like one now.

Lassiter frowned as he continued to stare at Spencer, trying to read exactly what the fake Psychic was trying to tell him. He was reminded of standing in front of a window in a decrepit hotel room, staring through the dirty curtain at the broken neon sign across the street, its letters and words broken, distorted and Lassiter was unsure as to what it was trying to tell him.

As he looked, attempting to decipher the words, the sign turned on, its sudden brightness momentarily blinding him. Not only did Spencer know about his fear, he understood it. '_He has an irrational fear of raccoons_.' Isn't that what Henry had said that day; his son feared raccoons. Lassiter felt sick to his stomach. Spencer was going to be nice to him, sympathise with him; heart to heart discussions, long walks on the beach, hand holding. He hadn't felt this humiliated since . . . well, not since his mother had told his first girlfriend the story of how his testicles hadn't descended into his scrotum until four months after he had been born. Lassiter had a sudden urge to dig a hole beneath a large rock located somewhere on the dark side of the moon just so he could crawl into it and hide. He once again began to feel overwhelmed, out of control, an emotional wreck waiting to happen.

The stranger spoke a second time, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, detectives. I'm Doctor Isit." Lassiter had no choice but to tear his scrutinizing gaze away from Spencer and that all knowing grin but he refused to move, his legs felt weak and a slight tremor was making its way through his body. He forced himself to relax, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Knowing that his hands were also trembling, Lassiter placed them on his hips, the tips of his fingers digging painfully into his flesh. The pain was only slight, not enough to drive the doubt and fear into a solid brick wall, destroying both emotions for a short time – they would be wearing seat belts, he was sure – so he pressed hard enough to leave bruises, the pain finally distracting him for a moment from his doubts and fears. And that was when Lassiter realized, amongst an almost dead silence broken only by the buzzing of an eager fly, that he was now the center of attention. Everyone, including Isit, was staring at him.

It all left Lassiter with an uneasy sensation that felt like he was being eaten from the inside out; a sharp pain in his gut, a dull ache in his chest, a prickly sensation at the back of his skull, and a fist squeezing his brain. He was ready to crack, a fissure in the making, a volcano ready to explode, spewing vulgar profanities.

Not here. Please not here. Not in front of Spencer. Not in front of Guster. Not in front of Spencer. Please, not in front of Spencer.

O'Hara, taking pity on her partner, broke the silence. "Doctor, we have another appointment and we're already running late so if we could," she waved her hand toward the dead cow, "start."

"Of course, Detective." Nodding strongly in agreement, Isit moved toward the mutilated cow, his shoulders slightly hunched and his hairstyle now looking noticeably off kilter- it was leaning to the left. "The bovine was found dead in the early hours of this morning and as you can see it has-"

"Wait." Lassiter, wanting to get rid of the fake psychic, raised his right hand and pointed at Spencer – who was still standing in the doorway and still wearing that smug grin – and said, "Spencer. You are not on this case. Leave. Now. Or I'll throw you out the front door . . . before I open it." 

Isit frowned, his confusion clearly written on his Doris Day-like features. "Isn't Mr. Spencer with you?"

"No," said Lassiter, "he isn't with me."

"But he-"

"Doctor Isit, allow me." Spencer, with an air of confidence mixed with a pinch of arrogance, walked into the room and stopped in front of Lassiter. "Firstly, Lassie, I'm glad you finally came to see the Vet about your persistent licking problem. I'm sure Doctor Isit can give you a cream of some sort. Perhaps Moo Goo Udder Cream would do the trick. Secondly, the Chief called us on the Psych phone and hired us for the case. Just in time too because apparently, there's a serial killer on the loose. Someone who has an extreme dislike of cows and bulls and it's going to take someone with an intelligent mind's eye to see the killer for who he really is. A seven foot tall wolf. Or not. Either way, we will solve this most horrifying case in the blink of a third eye." Spencer searched to the left, and then the right, finding only empty space where his friend should be. "Gus?"

"Shawn," O'Hara nodded toward the doorway.

Spencer rolled his eyes, more in embarrassment than anything else, and glanced over his shoulder. "Gus, now isn't the time."

Guster, refusing to step into the room, said, "I'm not coming in there."

"Gus, don't be the curl in a curly fry. It's not some Egyptian Mummy. It's just a cow and a dead cow at that. You're tall, big and tough and you float like a butterfly, so there's no reason for you to be afraid."

"It's been mutilated, Shawn. Its intestines are all over the floor."

"A piece, Gus. A small piece of intestine is on the floor."

"It's the first piece of many, Shawn." Guster crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly upward. His defensive body language spoke volumes; there was no way in hell he was entering the room.

"Perhaps Mr. Cheeks would like to wait in the waiting room."

"No, Doctor, Mr. _Cheeks_ is fine where he is," said Spencer.

"Dr. Isit," said O'Hara, "can we please continue?"

"Jules, what's the rush? It's not like the cow has a dinner date." Spencer gave Lassiter a knowing look. "It doesn't have a dinner date does it, Lassie?"

Lassiter sneered at Spencer. "I'd rather have a dinner date with a plate of Rocky Mountain Oysters."

Spencer chuckled and shook his head, "She sounds a little rough around the edges, Lassie. You should date someone with a more softer outer shell."

"They're bull testicles, you idiot."

"Wow," said Spencer. "Suddenly, I have this feeling of daychar view."

Guster spoke up from the doorway, "It's déjà vu, Shawn."

"I've heard it both ways."

"Shawn! We don't have time for this," O'Hara snapped. "Dr. Isit, please, continue."

Lassiter knew what O'Hara was doing; she was trying to get him out of the room as quickly as possible. A small part of him was grateful while another part felt as though she were treating him like a child on the verge of a tantrum. Did she think he was going to fall to the floor kicking and screaming? Perhaps he was embarrassing her with his anxiety. Maybe she was aware of his suspicions, his nagging feeling that she had told Spencer about his fear. Just the thought of O'Hara spilling his secrets to Spencer made him feel nauseated. Lassiter needed to know for sure, because he couldn't carry both doubt and fear around with him. He made a mental note to ask her when they did leave and stuck it to a notice board somewhere in the back of his mind. But what would he do if he asked and she said yes? He bit his tongue, the sharp pain pulling him away from emotions and thoughts he was sick of feeling.

Turning back to the mutilated carcass, Isit said, "The bovine had been found dead early this morning by a Mr. Flannery. Cause of death is unknown at this moment. This one, like the bull, had been exsanguinated-"

"Gus, I can't do this without you!" Spencer spoke through clenched teeth.

"All their blood was removed, drained from their bodies," said Guster from the doorway. "And I'm still not coming in there."

"Go on, Doctor Isit," O'Hara glared at Spencer.

"They were then mutilated." Like a magician, Isit pulled a pointer stick from his left sleeve. "An incision was made here-" the tip of the stick touched the cow's chest floor and then followed an invisible line along where the milk wells, mammary veins and rear udder attachment used to be and then to the tail's head- "and ended here. The sexual organs were removed from both the cow and bull. And as you can see, the udder of the cow was also removed."

"Would that explain the smell?" O'Hara asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"There was a smell earlier," said O'Hara and before she could continue, Isit spoke.

"Yes. Every now and then, the gases accumulating within the cow escape, emitting a foul odor that's unfamiliar."

"It seemed familiar for a moment but I couldn't place it."

"It did?"

"Yes, but . . . maybe it'll come to me later."

"May I continue now?" When O'Hara nodded an apology, Isit pointed at the cow's eye. "The eye lashes were also removed, which actually surprises me. I haven't seen that before."

Lassiter placed his hands on his hips as he remembered Flannery's words, '_The Aliens also took their eyelashes. What the fuck would an Alien want with the eyelashes of a cow or even a bull for that matter?_'

Isit paused, then reached up with his left hand and straightened his hair, pulling it down toward his right ear, and then petted the top of his head, as if to calm the hairy beast sitting on top of his skull. "All organ removal and incisions were done with a surgical precision and there is evidence of cauterization along the incision line. This leads me to believe the use of some sort of high heat-cutting device has been administered. It suggests that a laser was used."

Again, he paused, as though for effect.

"I know of no laser device that would do this."

Lassiter snorted.

"What are you saying, Doctor Isit?" O'Hara asked.

"I'm not sure this was done by a human."

The room filled with silence.

Even the fly had grown silent.

"Well, this is a dramatic silence worthy of an Oscar. Possibly a Felix," said Spencer.

"I wasn't trying to win any awards," said Isit.

"Just thank your parents and move on," said Spencer.

"Of course," continued Isit. "As I said, I don't believe this cow or the bull was mutilated by anything human. The laser used to make the incision, to remove the organs – I've never seen anything like this before. The cauterization, it's unrecognizable as something used on Earth. In fact, I would even stake my reputation on it and say it was a . . . a U.E.U."

O'Hara frowned. "What's a U.E.U.?"

"Unidentified Equipment Usage."

"That's not funny," said Spencer.

"I wasn't trying to be funny. I was trying to explain that the equipment used in the mutilation of this case is unidentifiable. Therefore, a U.E.U."

Lassiter followed the bizarre conversation, his gaze jumping from Spencer to Isit to O'Hara and back again, like a never-ending spring-loaded bouncing baby. When he began to feel nauseated, much like a rubber duck bathing with an exuberant five-year-old, he kept his gaze still, staring at Isit's obvious toupee while the conversation – a conversation he refused to be a part of – continued around him.

"You don't have a sense of humor do you, Doctor Is . . . it?"

"It's Isit and I have a very good sense of humor, Mr. Spencer. I just don't find the mutilation of a bovine very funny."

"Not even a little bit?"

Isit narrowed his eyes. "Not even a little bit."

Spencer shrugged. "So, what you're trying to say is . . . aliens mutilated these fat four-legged beasts of burden?"

"I don't seem to be getting through to you, Mr. Spencer," said Isit. "I'm not _trying_ to say anything. I _am_ telling you that I believe aliens have begun to mutilate bulls and bovines in Santa Barbara. There's no other explanation. I have spent four days studying these mutilated carcasses and I keep coming up with the same results each time. Now, without inflating my own ego . . . too much . . . I _am_ the only expert here. Am I not?"

"Expert in bullcrap," muttered Lassiter.

O'Hara stepped away from her partner, the plastic on the floor shifting and squealing beneath her feet as she moved closer to Spencer, a subtle move that Lassiter couldn't help but notice and said, "What makes you so sure it's . . ." O'Hara grimaced, choking on the word 'aliens' almost in the same way she had choked on yesterday's lunch. She had been polite when accepting and eating the lunch Mrs. Lassiter had made for her son and his female partner from her Sunday dinner leftovers. Even now, she could feel the meatloaf, like a lump of cement, making its way through her small intestine. Never again.

"Aliens," said Isit. "Is that what you're trying to say, Detective?"

"Yes, aliens. How can you be so sure?"

"Because I am. This has happened before and with the same results – death at the hands of unknown persons. And they were unable to identify the equipment used to mutilate the bovines. The so-called-expert in that particular case . . . well, let's just say the man was a quack and I'm not talking about the duck variety. He wasn't willing to admit that aliens were responsible. Now, if I had been the one asked to consult on that case, I would have come to the same conclusion as I have here and I wouldn't have been afraid to admit that it were aliens killing bovines."

"That doesn't mean that they were actually killed and mutilated by aliens, Dr. Isit," said O'Hara.

"Of course it does."

"But surely you can't . . . you can't be sure."

Isit straightened his shoulders, stuck out his Doris Day chin and said, "I'm as sure as my hair is real."

"Your hair isn't real," said O'Hara.

Isit tugged at his hair, pulling it too far forward. "Some of it is." With the forefinger of his left hand, Isit pointed to a spot just above his left ear. "This bit is real. And this bit over-"

"Doctor Isit." Spencer took a step closer to Isit, forcing the man to take a step back. "What you need is a . . . a . . . a . . ." He clicked his fingers. "Gus?"

Guster, who was still standing in the open doorway, said, "Baldness treatment."

"No," Spencer shook his head.

"Permanent Hair Restoration."

"Come on, Gus," said Spencer. "You're letting me down, buddy."

"A hair transplant."

"That's it," said Spencer. "You need to plant some hair, add a little fertilizer, sprinkle some water and hey, presto . . . instant hair. Maybe the roots will grow down into your brain, feed your intelligence a little and . . . hey, presto! No more aliens."

"Shawn," said O'Hara. "We don't want to antagonize the doctor now . . . do we?"

"Jules? You're not afraid he'll go all crazy on us, are you?"

"Shawn-"

"Fly over a cuckoo's nest?"

Isit cleared his throat, the noise much like a gagging grandmother, and said, "If Mr. Spencer weren't an expert in the psychic domain-"

Lassiter snorted.

Everyone ignored him.

"-I would take offense and ask him to leave."

O'Hara rolled her eyes and reached beneath her jacket for her police issued notebook and pen. "Doctor Isit, could you please tell me the name of the man who consulted on this other case?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The man who came to a different conclusion than you," said O'Hara.

"He didn't come to a different conclusion. He didn't come to any conclusion except 'I have no idea'."

"What was his name and how do I contact him?"

"You don't believe me?"

"Let's just say that we might require a second opinion."

Isit nodded, his mouth performing a perfect pout. O'Hara almost felt sorry for him. "His name is Doctor Norman Merchant. You can contact him at the University of New England. Doctor, and I use the term loosely, Merchant is on the Institutional Animal Care and Use Committee. IACUC for short." Isit leaned forward, up onto the balls of his feet to watch as O'Hara scribbled in her notebook. "But I'm telling you, Detective O'Hara, the man is incompetent when it comes to bovine mutilation. If he weren't, he would have come to the same conclusion as me."

"That aliens are responsible."

"There is no other explanation and I'm the expert."

"So you keep saying," said O'Hara. "Tell me, Doctor Isit, if it were aliens, as you say, why would they want to mutilate cows? Particularly Santa Barbara cows?"

"I assume it's because the aliens are threatened by both the bovines and bulls," said Isit. "Perhaps they have some form of intelligence that cause the aliens to become fearful, resulting in a-"

"When you say aliens," Spencer interrupted Isit, "are we talking about the suck-your-face-burst-out-of-your-stomach kind of alien or the point-their-finger-phone-home kind of alien?"

"If it's the suck-your-face-burst-out-of-your-stomach kind, Mr. Spencer, we are in serious trouble."

Lassiter began to laugh, a body shaking laugh that caused everyone to stare at him in bewilderment.

"Detective Lassiter," said Isit. "What is it you find so amusing?"

"You," said Lassiter. "Listen, Doctor I Sit-"

"It's Isit."

"I don't care if it's I-sit-on-my-ass-all-day-talking-to-little-green-men," said Lassiter. "You're an idiot and the longer I stand here listening to your idiocy, the more I want to shoot you."

"One of these days, Detective, you might just find yourself facing one of those little green men, who by the way are actually grey and you're going to wish you'd listened to me."

"Right now, I'm wishing that you wou-"

The cow, lacking manners due to the fact that it was still dead, farted again, a wet sound that left everyone gagging. The smell of collecting gases wasn't the only stench in the room. The unfamiliar odor was back, stronger than before.

Spencer stepped back, glancing over his shoulder, the expression on his face asking his friend if he recognized the smell. Guster, his fist against his mouth as though it were capable of holding back a torrent of vomit, was too busy trying not to throw up to acknowledge Spencer's silent question. His cheeks expanding and his throat convulsing had Guster running from the open doorway to parts unknown. Spencer, left in a lurch, turned back to the group and said, "Lassie, it reminds me of that new cologne you tried last month."

Lassiter grimaced, the smell causing his stomach to roll over and play dead, a rotting organ in need of vomiting.

O'Hara turned toward the cow, took a step closer and . . . sniffed. She gagged, choking back the bile filling her mouth and swallowed. "That smell . . . it's so familiar to me but I still can't place it."

Isit frowned, the expression partially hidden by the blue handkerchief he was now holding over his nose and mouth. "Detective, this odor is as unfamiliar to me as the device used to remove the organs."

"Isit," said Lassiter, "if you tell me that you believe an alien defecated in this cow, I'll arrange a session for you with a doctor who is an expert in Electroconvulsive therapy."

"But I'm not depressed," said Isit.

"We're leaving," said Lassiter. "We're taking this case back to the station where I'm going to put it and me out of our collective misery."

"Carlton-"

"Now, O'Hara." Lassiter, tiring of the emotional turmoil he was now living in, walked out of the room, pushing past Spencer when the fake psychic refused to move out of his way.

.

.

.

Lassiter thought he would feel calmer after leaving the room and the dead cow behind him. But now, outside in the almost empty parking lot, he felt as though he was about ready to fall flat on his face where he would willingly stay. Behind him he could hear laughter. Spencer and O'Hara having a laugh at his expense? If only that were the case. Spencer didn't want to laugh at him, he wanted to hold him, tell him that being afraid of cows was 'okay' and he wasn't alone when it came to irrational fears. Lassiter wanted to hit him. He took a deep breath and with only a slight hesitation he turned to face them.

And there they were, standing side by side. O'Hara with her feet slightly apart and her arms folded. It was as though she was expecting, waiting for, an outburst from her partner. An outburst she would be willing to absorb because she knew and understood that he was a walking time bomb who needed an outlet to let off some steam, delaying the explosion. Spencer was smiling at him but it wasn't as it should be, it was still a smile of understanding.

Lassiter needed to pull himself together, to suck it the fuck up and get on with his job. So he put on an act that he hoped would fool both Spencer and his partner.

"What in the hell were you doing in there, Spencer?"

"Lassie, I-"

"Nothing, that's what you were doing. Absolutely nothing. Where were your divine deductions? Your flamboyant hand motions? Your body's need for a straight jacket?"

"Isit is-" said Spencer.

"Spencer, if you tell me that aliens mutilated that damn cow, so help me, I _will_ kick your ass all the way back to the station."

"Lassie, I will tell you who mutilated the cow and how it was mutilated as soon as we're out of range."

Lassiter frowned. "Out of range of what?"

"The alien space craft that's blocking my divine deductions."

Lassiter clenched his jaw, and in a tone that suggested he was having severe bowel cramps, said, "Go and find Guster and leave. Now. Before I shoot you, Spencer."

"Come on, Lassie."

"Shawn, you should leave," said O'Hara. "Now."

"I'm having a human league moment," said Spencer.

Lassiter smiled and said, "No, we don't want you."

"Lassie, seriously. You got that reference."

"I got it. Please leave before I do something I won't regret."

"Okay, I'm leaving," said Spencer as he slowly made his way back inside the building to look for his friend. "You guys want me to pick you up anything on the way back to the station? Coffee? Donuts? Tin foil? A psychiatrist?"

Lassiter took a step toward Spencer, who turned and quickly disappeared inside.

With Spencer finally gone, Lassiter glared at his partner. "You told him, didn't you?"

O'Hara, her arms still crossed, frowned and said, "I told who what?"

"Spencer! You told him."

"Are you okay, Carlton?" asked O'Hara. "You look like you're about to faint."

He did feel a little dizzy.

Lassiter began to pace, an attempt to distract his dizziness. It didn't work. If he didn't sit down, he was going to fall down. He may have been happy enough about lying down on the ground earlier but now that falling flat on his face was becoming a reality, it was the last thing he wanted. He walked to his car – his partner following him – opened the door and sat down heavily, his feet still planted firmly on the ground. Lassiter leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his forehead resting on the palms of his hands. He no longer had the energy to act angry. He felt defeated, weighed down by hopelessness and fear. The belief that he wasn't going to get through this case without harm to his sanity only made it worse. He needed his partner, needed to know that she hadn't betrayed him.

"I trusted you with my biggest fear and you betrayed me by telling Spencer, of all people."

"Carlton." O'Hara crouched down in front of Lassiter, her right hand resting on her partner's knee. "Do you honestly believe I would do that to you, betray you like that?"

"You're the only person I trusted enough to tell and now Spencer knows. What am I supposed to think, O'Hara? That the tooth fairy told him!"

"He's psych-"

"No, he isn't," said Lassiter. "He didn't divine it. Someone _told_ him."

"Carlton, look at me," said O'Hara.

He didn't want to. Didn't want to see the lie in her eyes.

"Carlton."

No. He wasn't going to look at her.

"I didn't tell Shawn about your fear. You're my partner. I trust you with my life and I trust you with my worst fears. Carlton, I would never betray you like that. Never." O'Hara stood up. "Right now, I don't care if you believe me or not but I want you to know that I'm going to get you through this. If you need to be angry at me . . . if you want to hate me, yel-"

"I don't hate you, O'Hara," said Lassiter. "I just . . . how did he find out?"

"I don't know, Carlton."

O'Hara's grip, ghostlike in its touch, moved from his knee to his forearm, her thumb rubbing a continuous circle as she tried to convey her support. He knew she wanted to protect him, shelter him from the storm of emotions she had to know he was feeling. His partner, in a moment of her own fear, had let her concern over-ride her professionalism. Lassiter though, couldn't fault her. She must have read his mind, his body language that screamed 'self destruction is imminent' – his body had a language all of its own. O'Hara was no doubt afraid that he would break into a thousand fragile pieces, leaving it up to her to brush up each individual piece and glue them haphazardly back together so her partner would once again, be almost whole – and let's admit it, it was no secret, Lassiter was already a few pieces short of a whole.

Finding both her concern and touch a comfort, an anchor keeping him grounded amongst a chaos of emotions fighting for control over a mind already drained and ready for surrender, he submitted to her silent words, like a child trusting his mother as she passed him off to an ominous stranger. He let the moment pass, giving her enough time to satisfy both her needs and his own. When the muscles in his forearm finally began to relax, she let him go. He now felt calmer, in control of his emotions. Able to continue on.

He should have just gone home, thrown in the towel, handed over the reins to someone else . . .

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Just as Lassiter had expected, the smell from the dead cow had clung to him like a dress clings to the body of a street walker. It had followed him into the men's room; the smell nauseating him, keeping his stomach in constant turmoil, indecisive about throwing up. His head wasn't feeling much better – it felt as though a small woodland creature had burrowed its way into his skull and begun feeding on the brain inside, a constant ache that refused to subside. Hell had come to visit Carlton Lassiter and it had no intention of leaving.

He stared down at his hands, the fingers gripping the edge of the basin so hard they ached with a fierce passion. He lifted his gaze and stared back at his reflection. His face was so pale it was sure to invite questions about his health, questions he would refuse to answer. Then the rumors would begin, ridiculous stories that would include a tumor growing on a part of his anatomy that would cause a Nun to blush and his mother to become curious, insisting that she should take a look, make sure everything was okay, that something wasn't about to fall off. Let them talk - as long as the rumor didn't get back to his mother – because any lie would be better than the truth.

A knock on the men's room door startled him, causing his heart to skip a beat. A stupid, immature image flashed through his aching brain; a cow was _not_ knocking on the door of the men's room. Another knock, this one louder than the last, insistent and demanding to be answered. Lassiter ignored it. He had locked the door. He could hide . . . stay in this room as long as he wanted and he wanted to stay here for a very long time, long enough to grow withered and old. He needed to think of an excuse, one that would remove him from this case. Mutilated cows, aliens, hair pieces and small dicks. He'd had enough of it. He would rather prowl the streets, enticing hookers - some old enough to be his grandmother - into offering him a blow job and then arresting them while they screamed rape in his ear and if he dared to admit it, it would be the most attention he had received from a woman in long time; even the wrong attention was better than no attention.

"Detective Lassiter, Sir!"

McNab, gullible to the point that he probably still believed in Santa Claus. He needed to introduce McNab to Mrs. Lassiter, feed him venison and regale him with the story about the death of Santa Claus and his precious reindeer.

Lassiter turned on the cold water tap, filling the palms of his hands before splashing water onto his face, holding the cool flesh of his palms against the warm flesh of his face. He stayed that way for what felt like minutes, McNab banging his fist against the door, calling out to Lassiter, worrying that something was seriously wrong. No, nothing was wrong; Lassiter just wanted the world to end, for a gaping hole to suddenly appear in front of him so he could fall to his death. He let his hands fall to his side and sighed in frustration; now he looked pale _and_ sweaty, death warmed over.

"Sir, if you don't open this door," McNab's voice had risen an octave or two, "I will be forced to . . . force it open."

McNab, he could entertain children for hours.

Lassiter knew he couldn't stay in here, they wouldn't allow it. Their concern would override his need for privacy. Damn them. At a pace slower than a ninety year old with a walking frame, Lassiter dried his hands and his face, walked to the door and without thinking, opened it. McNab, in full momentum, fell forward into Lassiter, knocking them both to the tiled floor in a heap; it was such a cliché. Lassiter's head bounced off the floor and he let out a curse that his mother would approve. His headache increased faster than Bill Gates's bank account.

McNab, clumsy and quick, removed himself from the situation, apologizing as though his life depended on it. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't . . . I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

Was he alright? Lassiter took stock of his condition. Apart from the increased headache, everything else felt okay . . . oh wait . . . his stomach . . . no, it was still indecisive. Lassiter wondered for a moment if his stomach were of the female variety.

"I'm fine," said Lassiter.

"Let me help you up." A hand appeared inches away from Lassiter's face. "Sir."

"You've done enough, McNab."

"I'm sorry, Sir," said McNab. "I didn't-"

"Did you want something?"

"The Chief wants you to. . . Sir, are you going to stay down there?"

"McNab, I'm seriously considering it."

"Oh."

"McNab?"

"Yes, Sir?"

"Go away."

"Yes, Sir."

McNab left in a hurry, scrambling out of the men's room without a backward glance. No doubt to find the cavalry and mount a rescue mission. The man was loyal; Lassiter had to give him that. He figured he had at least a couple of minutes before McNab came shambling back, rescue party in tow, and Lassiter was going to take full advantage of every peaceful second. Relaxing his muscles, Lassiter closed his eyes and let his aching mind drift, trying to imagine something that would calm him. His mind, in a state of emotional turmoil, could think of nothing that would help. He shifted his attention to something else– the tiles beneath him, cool through the material of his clothing, chilled him, gripping his backbone and reaching up into his skull, squeezing until his headache seemed to decrease, if only for a moment. But a moment was enough, it felt good, a welcomed relief that was short lived.

"Carlton."

"I'm fine." He was going to kill McNab.

"You don't look fine," said O'Hara.

Lassiter opened his eyes and sat up, grimacing when the pain in his skull increased, biting down on the groan rising in his throat. This was not a good day, and it wasn't over yet. He could feel O'Hara's gaze, steady, strong and demanding. He refused to look at her, his embarrassment almost overwhelming.

"Why are you on the floor?" asked O'Hara.

"Would you believe McNab put me here?"

"As long as it wasn't an alien."

Lassiter snarled.

"Sorry."

He stood up, spreading his feet to keep his balance when he swayed a little too much to the left. O'Hara gripped his forearm, an attempt to steady him, keep him upright. Her concern was so strong he could feel it emanating from her in waves, washing over him, pulling his body down . . . drowning him. He pulled his arm from her grip, taking a step back when his head spun in the wrong direction. Maybe he should apply for medical leave . . . he really wasn't feeling very well.

"Carlton, go home."

He was tempted, so very tempted but he couldn't just go home. If he did, he was sure Chief Vick would end up knocking on his front door. It would be better if he just walked into Vick's office and told her, in a tone that would offend, that he was off the case, that he would quit his job- well, he wouldn't go that far. But he would go far enough to get himself suspended. A few days at home were just what he needed.

Lassiter shook his head, "I'm fine," and stepped past his partner into a hallway filled with onlookers. They were smiling, grinning from ear to ear. They had heard everything. He glared at O'Hara. She shrugged back– what else could she have done? He pushed his way through the tight group of uniformed officers, his expression deadly. This wasn't hell, it was torture and Lassiter was on the receiving end.

With O'Hara trying to keep up with him, Lassiter stormed up the stairs and toward Vick's office. He was going to end this and end it now. He didn't knock, his attention to offend, and pushed open the door hard enough that it bounced back at him; things were not going well for Lassiter.

Chief Vick sat in her chair, staring at Lassiter, her mouth agape in surprise. Lassiter, momentarily stunned by her reaction stopped in the middle of the room, his right arm raised, his forefinger pointing accusingly at his boss. He hesitated, no longer sure of what he should say. Words stumbled through his brain, falling over each other as they clumsily made their way to his mouth. Lassiter snapped his mouth shut, possibly the smartest thing he had done today. He thought carefully, Vick now watching him with an intense gaze, as though she knew what he was about to say. He no longer felt the need to explain himself so he decided to just put it as simply as he could.

"I want off this case," said Lassiter. "Now."

O'Hara stepped forward, placing herself in front of Lassiter, forcing him back a step, glancing at him quickly with an apologetic expression on her face, and said, "Chief, what Detective Lassiter is trying to say, is . . . he's not feeling well and doesn't believe he would be able to investigate this case in the professional manner that is required of him. He would like to go home. Now. Please."

Lassiter glared at his partner, his expression lost amidst the pale color of his skin; he didn't look threatening, just sick and tired, like an old man who had just spent the last five minutes attempting to satisfy his wife sexually and failing miserably.

O'Hara glared back, unwilling to back down, winning when Lassiter's gaze shifted back to Vick. She smiled in victory or worry, one couldn't really tell the difference.

"Detectives, I believe you know Dr Isit," said Vick, her head discreetly motioning toward the corner of her office.

Lassiter was thrown off kilter, unsure that he had heard correctly. Isit? Here? With his need to be removed from the case temporarily distracted, Lassiter turned slowly, his confusion growing and at the sight of Isit sitting at the round desk in the corner, he threw his arms up in disgust.

"What in the hell is this idiot doing here?" said Lassiter.

Isit, his hair piece warning Lassiter to back off, said, "You told me to come here."

Lassiter tilted his head, frowning, trying to understand why this idiot would even think he was welcomed here, or anywhere for that matter. The man was a glorified lunatic, heading for insane and a white padded room with a very uncomfortable straight jacket.

"I only seem to remember the threat to shoot you," said Lassiter.

Vick coughed, a warning both men failed to recognize.

"It wasn't exactly a threat, Detective," said Isit.

"You won't think that when I do shoot you."

"Detective Lassiter," said Vick, "that's enough!"

Lassiter, ignoring his boss said, "Why are you here?"

"I told you," Isit scratched his fake hair, pulling it a little to the left, "you told me to come. I thought we were going to continue discussing the case here."

"No. I didn't. And no. We're not."

"I believe you're exact words were, '_We're_ leaving. _We're_ taking this case back to the station where I'm going to put it and me out of our collective misery.'"

Lassiter put his hands on his hips, lowered his head and took a slow, deep calming breath. It didn't help, not even a little bit. His head ached and his stomach was as decisive as a woman trying to choose which pair of shoes she wanted to buy. Taking a step toward Isit, he lifted his gaze, his blue eyes unwavering as he stared back at the idiot. "You, Doctor Asshat, are not a contributing member of the 'we're' club. You are not welcome here."

"It's Isit, Detective, and you should have been more specific when making such a statement. If you didn't want me here to watch your childish display then-"

Lassiter moved quickly, his stomach stunned, his head surprised, and grabbed Isit by the lapels of his very well worn corduroy jacket, pulled him to his feet, and dragged the man away from the table and toward the door. Isit yelped in surprise, but didn't offer any resistance, only slapping his hand against his scalp when his hair piece fell to the floor behind him. Lassiter raised an eyebrow in surprise when O'Hara opened the door wide enough for him to push Isit through, slamming it shut behind the sputtering imbecile when he was on the other side of the doorway.

"My hair!"

"Screw your hair," yelled Lassiter.

"Detective!"

Lassiter's shoulders slumped and he turned to face Vick. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Give the man back his hair, and then you can explain your colorful performance and if I'm not satisfied, I will suspend you!"

Lassiter, too worked up to realize Vick had just given him the perfect opportunity to get suspended, said, "O'Hara." He nodded toward the hair piece; he was sure it was moving, twitching, searching for its owner. "Give the man his hair, and be careful, I'm sure it bites."

O'Hara rolled her eyes, an accusation that her partner was a coward. She walked with purpose toward the toupee, picked it up between a forefinger and thumb and carried it to the door, opened the door and threw out the hair piece in much the same way Lassiter had thrown Isit. The doctor scrambled to catch his wig, placing it back on his head; the hair piece now looking more like an unfortunate comb over. It suited the man. She watched as Isit walked away, his intense stare refusing to leave Lassiter alone until Isit had no choice but to face the way he was walking.

"Detective. I'm waiting."

They both turned to face Vick, Lassiter glancing at O'Hara who stared back. "O'Hara, why don't you tell the Chief what happened."

"Why don't _you_ tell me, Detective Lassiter," said Vick, the tendons in her neck knotted so tightly in anger her jaw ached.

As though it were explanation enough, Lassiter said, "Doctor Idiot, after four intense days of investigation has come to the conclusion that aliens are responsible for the mutilation of Mr. Flannery's cow."

"And bull," added O'Hara.

"So," Lassiter continued, "I suggest that we hand this case over to a secret government agency that deals with . . . aliens and the crazies who believe they exist."

Vick leant forward, rested her forearms on her desk, gripped the fingers of each hand in a death grip, smiled and said, "Detective Lassiter, are you trying to test my intelligence?"

"Yes, Chief." If it gets him suspended, then why not try.

"Chief, what Detective Lassiter meant to say was-"

"O'Hara," said Lassiter, "you're not my mother."

O'Hara stepped back away from Lassiter, her lips pressing down into a thin line, and gave him enough room to make an absolute fool out of himself, and knowing Lassiter, it wouldn't take him long.

"Chief, I want off this case. If I have to grovel, I will. If I have to call you every name under the sun to get suspended, I will. I want off this case. Now."

Vick sat back into her chair and watched Lassiter with a steady gaze. She said nothing, allowing her silence to speak for itself. She waited until Lassiter began to fidget, to shift his feet together, fold his arms across his chest and then, in a moment of sympathy, decided to place Lassiter on a sharp hook and sink him, let the fish feed on his skinny carcass until he begged for mercy. She curled a finger at him, indicating that she wanted him to come closer . . . closer . . . close enough.

"Detective Lassiter, allow me to put you out of your collective misery. If you do not continue with this case, I _will_ fire you. Not suspend you. Fire you," said Vick. "Here and now, without your pension and without a reason, although, I'm sure you would be able to work out why I fired you. You are, after all, a Detective. Unless of course, you would like me to hire Mr. Spencer to help you figure it out."

Vick held up her hand, stopping O'Hara who was about to defend her partner, not that he deserved it. What he deserved was a slap across the face.

"Then fire me," said Lassiter, unsure if those words had actually come out of his mouth. He didn't really want to lose his job, just this case.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Detective," said Vick.

"Carlton," said O'Hara from behind his left shoulder, "tell her."

"No."

"Tell me what, Detective O'Hara?"

O'Hara stepped forward and looked sideways at her partner. He couldn't lose his job, not like this, not over a cow, an idiot . . . his stupid pride. "Carlton-"

"Shut it, O'Hara," said Lassiter. "Now."

"You do realize," said O'Hara, "that you are going to pay dearly for that."

Lassiter nodded. Of course he did. It was why he admired her so much. O'Hara didn't take crap from anyone, including her partner, who could be a complete asshole most of the time.

"I'll apologize later."

"Does this unspoken problem have anything to do with the case?" asked Vick.

Lassiter and O'Hara stood silent, side by side, ready to protect each other.

Vick sighed. "I don't know whether to admire your loyalty to each other or to . . ." she shook her head. "The case or your job? Which is it, Detective Lassiter?"

"You can't fire me," said Lassiter. "Not without cause."

"Try me," said Vick.

"I would like to put in a request for medical leave on the grounds that I'm not feeling well."

"Is that what that smell is?"

"Um . . . no."

"Then request denied," said Vick. "Make your choice, Detective."

Lassiter clenched his jaw and turned his gaze, trying to make a decision, trying to convince himself that he could do this. He felt O'Hara's fingers on his back, a touch that assured him she would do whatever necessary to help him through this: support him, comfort him, kick his ass. He didn't want to lose his job. His decision unwillingly made, he looked back at Vick, and said, "The case."

"You'll thank me later, Detective," said Vick. "Now, about doctor Isit-"

"The man is an idiot," said Lassiter. "He's convinced aliens did this. He should be locked up in a dark and very morbid place, preferably without his hair. He should be given shock therapy until his brain fries, drugs that'll make his bowel want to run a ten mile marathon. A therapist who-"

"I thought that was a joke," said Vick. "An attempt to get thrown off the case?"

Frowning, Lassiter said, "What?"

"The part about the aliens. I thought you were joking."

"No," said O'Hara. "It's not a joke. Isit actually believes aliens mutilated Mr. Flannery's cow."

"And bull," said Lassiter.

Vick looked at both Detectives, searching for subterfuge. O'Hara's expression was one of honestly, while Lassiter looked as though he'd just spent the entire day with his mother. Vick shuddered and then growled at the thought of Mrs. Lassiter.

"Chief?" said O'Hara.

"It's nothing," said Vick. "What about Mr. Flannery? What did you learn from him?"

"He didn't call?" asked Lassiter, surprised the man hadn't carried out his threat to make a complaint. Flannery must have been more of a coward than Lassiter had first thought. The man really didn't have any balls.

"No. Why would he . . ." Vick narrowed her eyes at Lassiter, her forehead creasing. "Why would he call me?"

"To tell you that he thinks aliens mutilated his cow," said Lassiter.

"And bull," added O'Hara.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"As serious as Henry Spencer," said Lassiter.

"They both believe aliens mutilated the cow?"

Lassiter and O'Hara spoke together. "And bull."

"They can't both be serious?"

"They are, Chief," said O'Hara. "Doctor Isit believes the cow-"

"And bull," said Lassiter.

"-were mutilated with a U.E.U."

"What's a U.E.U?" Vick wasn't sure she wanted to know. "And do I actually need to know?"

"Unidentified Equipment Usage. He claims the equipment used to cut open the animals is not of this Earth."

Lassiter smiled, "Can I be taken off the case now?"

"No."

"It was worth another try, Carlton," said O'Hara.

Lassiter shrugged, extremely disappointed he couldn't get himself removed from the case without being made redundant. This day was hell.

"Do they have any actual evidence to support their accusations?" asked Vick.

"No," said Lassiter. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous . . . Chief."

"Then you need to find some."

"You want us to find evidence that supports Isit and Flannery's accusations?" asked Lassiter.

"No. I want you to go back and talk to Flannery. Grill him. Find out why he thinks aliens are responsible for the mutilation of his cow."

O'Hara opened her mouth.

Vick said, "Don't."

O'Hara nodded.

"We don't need to talk to Flannery again," said Lassiter.

"Why not?"

"He doesn't know anything."

"Is that what he told you?"

"Not exactly."

"And what, exactly, does that mean?"

Lassiter glanced at O'Hara. "We were only there for a few minutes."

"Really," said Vick.

"He erected a cross for Martha," O'Hara offered, a weak attempt to get both herself and her partner out of the malevolent bag they now found themselves in.

"Martha?"

"His cow."

"Oh."

"He's as crazy as Isit," said Lassiter. "Nutters, both of them."

"Do you think Mr. Flannery is crazy enough to kill his own cow . . . and bull?"

"He's not capable," said Lassiter. "He erected a cross for a dead cow. He was mourning, flowers, praying, everything. A man who feels that way about his cows doesn't kill them. And did we mention that he's crazy?"

"You did mention that, Detective." Vick stood up and walked around her desk, crossed her arms and leant back on the edge of the desk, so close to Lassiter that he inched away from her, and bumping against O'Hara who refused to move. "Have McNab run a background check on him anyway. And go back and talk to him, conduct a more thorough interview. Ask him if he saw or heard anything. Anything that can be explained by a rational person. In other words, Detectives, do your job."

"Yes, Chief."

"What does Mr. Spencer have to say about it?" said Vick.

"Mr. Spencer?" said Lassiter.

"Yes, our Psychic consultant, perhaps you've heard of him."

Lassiter looked down and away, glaring daggers at the colorful glass fish on the desk.

"Shawn," O'Hara started and then hesitated. "Shawn said that an alien space craft was blocking his . . . divine deductions."

"Detective Lassiter," said Vick, "I'm beginning to understand your desire to be removed from the case."

Lassiter took a deep breath. It wasn't the only reason. Fear was the main contributor. If he had to face another cow - dead or alive - today, or any other day he was going to shoot it. His heart clenched at the thought, his headache rose and his stomach churned- it would not surprise him at all if his damn gut finally made a decision, throwing up all over Chief Vick and embarrassing the crap out of Lassiter.

"What are you not telling me, Detective?"

Vick must have noticed the sudden change in his body language. He had been tense; anger would do that to him but the fear did something else. It made him weak, and Lassiter was sure his features reflected the emotion from within. Surely his fear was radiating outward, engulfing those around him, spreading the fear, chilling their innards in much the same way his fear chilled him, squeezing his heart, killing him slowly. O'Hara squeezed his arm and that small touch brought him back down, calming not only his fear but his stumbling stomach. One day, not soon, he would show her how grateful he was for her support; he may even allow her to drive his Crown Vic- to the end of the parking lot and back . . . maybe.

"Speak of the devil," said Vick, distracted and looking away from Lassiter.

Frowning, Lassiter turned, his gaze finding not only Spencer and Guster but Doctor Idiot with his pet crawling around on his thick scalp. Lassiter felt hated, like the world was against him, poking him, calling him names, treating him like a piece of shit that wasn't fit enough to stick to someone's ass. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Isit looked angry, a situation that could be easily rectified by throwing him back out of the office. Guster looked embarrassed. And Spencer looked like a complete idiot; he always looked like an idiot but this time, this time, the tin foil hat only made him look more idiotic, like he'd just escaped from the asylum. Lassiter turned away before opening his eyes; if he kept his gaze off Spencer, off Isit, he might just survive the next few minutes without shooting someone.

"I need to leave," said Lassiter.

Vick said, "Stay."

"At least let me throw Isit back out on his ass?"

"No, he may be helpful."

"Only if he got the license plate of the U.F.O."

Vick gave him a stern look, telling him to shut up.

The office door opened and Spencer walked in with his entourage. Lassiter couldn't stop himself from looking over his shoulder. He wanted to slap the fake psychic, knock that tin foil hat off his head. It might get him suspended. Lassiter turned and stepped toward the odd looking group.

"Detective," said Vick, "it'll be your job."

Lassiter took another step, only to be stopped by his partner. O'Hara pulled him back to her side, keeping him there with a firm grip on the back of his jacket. She whispered to him, standing on the toes of her shoes, "Carlton, not here, please." He tried to relax his muscles, to lean back against her hand, the palm now open against his back. His muscles trembled with anger, with fear. He was going to lose it and it was going to be soon.

"Sorry we're late," said Spencer, striking a model pose, no doubt to show off his tin foil monstrosity. "Gus had some trouble finding his way out of a toilet bowl."

"No, I didn't, Shawn!" Guster looked slightly green around the gills, his eyes bloodshot. "My head was only in there for a few minutes."

"Mr. Spencer, where have you been?"

"Chief, you're not going to believe it!"

"Believe me, Mr. Spencer, I won't."

"You doubt me?"

"Right now, Mr. Spencer? Yes, I do."

"Shawn," said O'Hara. "Why are you wearing a tin foil hat?"

"Jules! This hat . . . it was like a weight was lifted off my psychic abilities-"

"You're not psychic, Spencer," said Lassiter. "You're an idiot. That hat proves it. Chief? Can I shoot him now?"

"Not yet."

It wasn't much, a small dim light in a deep well of darkness, but Lassiter would take it. Enjoy the moment, the fact that Vick hadn't said no. She would never say yes, he knew that, but she also knew that a little give and take here and there would be enough to cause him to settle, his anger distracted as he thought of Spencer strapped to a target at the shooting range. Lassiter also knew the dim light would fade away altogether, disappearing too soon and his mind would be back on track, angry and fearful of what was ahead.

"Lassie! The tin foil blocks the signals sent from the U.F.O. As soon as I put this hat on it all became clear and images began to flood my mind."

"Your mind drowned years ago," said Lassiter.

"Seriously, Lassie, it was ET's life flashing before my eyes and before you ask, no, ET did not kill that cow."

"Or bull," added Guster.

"What is it you're saying, Mr. Spencer?" asked Vick.

"Aliens did not kill that cow."

"Or bull," said Guster.

"Of course they didn't, Spencer," said Lassiter. "We already knew that."

"Lassie-"

Isit chose the wrong time to talk. "He calls you Lassie? Why? What are you? His pet?"

There it was, the momentary feeling of joy being ripped from him, sinking his heart, a roughened piece of lead falling to the pit of his stomach. The light was gone and the darkness gripped him, soaked him to the bone. His mind snapped in two, his anger blinding him to the consequences of his actions, his common sense failing to tell him that what he was about to do was stupid, crazy and just on the edge of lunatic.

Lassiter moved forward, his anger swallowing him whole. "I'm going to kill him."

Guster, smart man that he was, removed himself from danger, taking two steps sideways. Isit, seeking protection from someone, anyone, quickly moved behind Spencer, bending his knees, trying to look smaller than he actually was; a deformed Doris Day with a bad hairdo.

"Stand down, Detective!" Vick moved away from her desk and reached for Lassiter, her fingers barely touching the back of his jacket before she lost him. The anger gripping Lassiter was familiar, an emotion she had seen once before. Words would not be enough to stop him. Vick glanced at Spencer and Guster but they wouldn't be much help, not against Lassiter– a formable force when he put his mind to it. "Mr. Guster, find a uniformed Officer. Now."

Guster nodded and ran from the room.

"Carlton!" O'Hara, her grip on Lassiter's jacket firm, pulled with all her strength but she only succeeded in delaying the inevitable. He pushed her away, his anger not recognizing his own partner and she lost her grip, falling to floor, the back of her head hitting Vick's desk. Momentarily stunned, she stayed on the floor, her reflexes slow to act.

"Lassie," Spencer put his arms out trying to placate Lassiter. "Don't do this, buddy."

Lassiter didn't respond with words, he simply shoved Spencer to the side.

Isit screamed and raised his arms to protect himself; a useless gesture.

To everyone else, time seemed to slow, pausing altogether.

Lassiter struck fast and he struck hard. The base of his palm slammed into Isit's chest, the sound of contact echoing around the office. Air escaped Isit's lungs in a panicked rush. Dropping his arms to protect his chest as he struggled to draw in a ragged breath, Isit realized his mistake too late, his face now out in the open. Lassiter struck a second time, drawing back his punch at the last possible moment, the knuckles of his clenched fist sinking into Isit's throat. Isit's long legs folded like a cheap tent and he fell to his side on the floor, his hands wrapped around his own throat, clawing at the bruised flesh.

The sound of gagging, retching, like loose phlegm at the back of the throat, filled the room.

"Detective Lassiter! Stand down."

Lassiter reached down for Isit, his right hand clenched, but before he could strike another blow someone grabbed him from behind, pulling him away from his quarry. Lassiter swore; the voiced profanity unfamiliar to his friends, his colleagues.

Officer McNab, loyal, gentle, grabbed Lassiter's upper arms hard enough to leave bruises, pulled him away from the man on floor and threw him, like a soft toy, into the nearest chair.

The chair moved across the floor, its legs scraping, the force of Lassiter's arrival sending it into retreat.

Lassiter, his anger slow to dissipate, stood up and pushed against McNab to get back at Isit. Large hands against his chest pushed him back down. "Sir, stay in the chair. Please."

Ignoring the request, Lassiter stood up, only to find himself back in the chair, McNab's hand on his shoulder, keeping him down. Lassiter held the arms of the chair in a death grip, his knuckles going white as though they'd just seen a ghost. His breath was quick, ragged. He could feel his anger, still so alive, unwilling to back down, as it flowed through him, its destination altered, its victim taken from its reach. His head throbbed in pain, accompanying his heart beat, both pounding out of control, his body so tense his muscles ached.

O'Hara stood up and tested her balance, felt the back of her head, feeling a small lump the size of a pea. The room didn't spin and her stomach was calm. Her gaze moved from Isit, still on the floor but breathing easier, to her partner. She walked toward him, kneeling in front of him, her hand on his knee, squeezing it.

"Carlton, look at me."

At first her words were muffled, hard to hear through the anger. He resisted, pushing up against the force that was keeping him down.

O'Hara stood up, her face close to his and whispered, "Carlton."

Her breath was warm against his cool skin, her hair smelling of peaches and the odor of death on her clothes. Suddenly, his anger deflated, his muscles sagged, his mind cleared and he understood what he had just done. His gaze which had been fixed on Isit shifted, searching until he found his partner. O'Hara stared back, her gaze steady, her face pinched. Lassiter knew that look; she was in pain. Had he hurt her? He would never forgive himself if he had.

"Are you okay?" said O'Hara.

From the floor Isit grumbled something, the words unintelligible, garbled but they all recognized it as a protest, an attempt to turn the attention on himself, to garner sympathy that obviously wasn't there.

Letting out a deep breath, Lassiter shook his head. He leaned forward, his elbows digging into his thighs, his hands clasped over the back of his head. What in the hell had he just done? Vick was going to fire his ass. He just lost his job over. . . His body began to shake with retreating adrenalin, with defeat.

"It's okay, Carlton," said O'Hara. "It's okay."

"No it isn't, Detective," said Vick.

O'Hara turned on her heels, her expression haunted, questioning. "Chief?"

Vick stood over Isit, her hand on the doctor's shoulder, pulling him and then helping him to his feet.

Isit coughed, his eyes watered. His breath was short, his throat too painful to talk but he refused to give in to it. "I'm going to sue," he croaked. "I want to press charges! I want him in jail."

"You provoked him," said O'Hara. "You just kept pushing-"

"I did no such thing," Isit's voice was so painful, it had everyone but Lassiter wincing. "A few sarcastic comments do not get this kind of result. Not unless he's unstable. I knew there was something wrong with him the moment I laid eyes on him."

Spencer, staying close to the door in case of a need to escape, said, "Hey! Lassie may be small minded, slow to come to a conclusion, quick to draw his gun, extremely unattractive to all women but-"

"Mr. Spencer, enough. Please."

Guster, at the sound of his friend's voice, stepped back into the room, stopped beside his friend, and said, "It's the wig."

Spencer tugged at his tin foil hat, pulling it a little too far forward and nodded in agreement. "The wig."

Lassiter felt his muscles tense, his anger return. McNab's hold on his shoulder responded to Lassiter's body language, gripping with more strength, ready to do what was required if Lassiter was stupid enough to try and go a second round with Isit.

"Dr. Isit," said Vick, turning back to Isit, an apologetic smile on her face. "Allow me to apologize on behalf of the Santa Barbara Police Department." She took a deep breath before continuing. "Do you wish to press charges against Detective Lassiter?"

"I want him to apologize," said Isit.

"That's not going to happen," said Lassiter.

Vick glared at Lassiter, her warning lost, wasted because Lassiter was still bent over, his face hidden from her, his body shaking.

"Then yes, I want to press charges."

"Of course," she nodded. "Detective O'Hara, please escort Doctor Isit to your desk so he can make a formal complaint."

O'Hara placed the palm of her hand against Lassiter's back. "I'm sorry, Chief, but . . . no."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm staying with my partner," said O'Hara. "Someone else should do it . . . Chief."

"Officer McNab . . ." Vick didn't need to speak the words.

"Yes, ma'am." McNab squeezed Lassiter's shoulder and stepped toward Isit, taking the Doctor's arm and leading him out of the office, Guster stepping out of the way to let them pass.

Vick returned to her desk, sitting in her chair, readying herself for a task she knew she would find enormously difficult. She stared down at her hands, gripping them when she noticed they were shaking almost as much Lassiter had been. "I would like to speak to Detective Lassiter alone."

A lack of movement caused her to lift her gaze; O'Hara, Spencer and Guster, all statue-like in their refusal to leave the room.

"I'm sure Detective Lassiter doesn't want to be berated in front of colleagues."

"Chief," said O'Hara. "There are extenuating circumstances you don't know about. Carlton is under a lot of pressure. This case . . . he shouldn't be on this case."

Lassiter dropped his arms and leaned back in the chair, his gaze soft, regretful, and said "O'Hara, don't."

O'Hara turned on him, her anger quick, hot. "No! Don't you . . . don't you dare tell me that. I have spent the entire day watching you, unable to help you, to. . ." O'Hara stopped and took a deep breath, getting her emotions under control. "I am not going to stand by and watch you throw away your career because of your stupid manly pride. Suck it up, Carlton. Get over it and tell the Chief why you just tried to beat the crap out of that Doris Day asshole."

"Wow," said Spencer. "Jules, I have a fear of raccoons."

"An irrational fear of raccoons," said Guster.

"Phobia's aren't irrational, Gus," said Spencer. "They're as common as the common cold. In fact, they're commoner."

Lassiter was too emotionally exhausted to react to the confirmation that Spencer did know about his fear. Too tired to resort to name calling, another physical altercation. He was just so damn tired, too tired to keep up the fight. But O'Hara was right. His job was on the line; possibly Salready lost and he should attempt to save it by admitting his fear. His fear of cows. His irrational fear of cows. Lassiter shook his head, the movement slow and his eyelids heavy.

"Oh for God's sake, Carlton," said O'Hara. "Chief, he has a cow phobia."

"Bonophobia," said Spencer.

"Bovinophobia," said Guster, shrugging. "It would be Bovinophobia if there were an actual clinical term for it, which there isn't."

Vick frowned. "_The_ Carlton Lassiter is scared of cows?"

"And bulls," said O'Hara.

"Is this true, Carlton?"

Lassiter nodded, unable to muster up the energy to get angry over O'Hara's betrayal. His body felt weighed down, too heavy to breathe, to speak. He felt weak, a coward.

"Chief, you can't understand how difficult this has been for him," said O'Hara. "He's on edge, and these accusations of aliens from two men who. . . if Carlton hadn't hit Isit, I would have."

"He did slightly more than hit him."

McNab knocked on the door and when the Chief nodded, he opened it, his upper body leaning forward, forcing Spencer and Guster to move further into the room, and said in a tone filled with relief, "Doctor Isit changed his mind. He no longer wants to press charges against Detective Lassiter."

"Did he say why?" asked Vick.

"No, ma'am. Just that he'd changed his mind. Said he would settle for a written apology and that he hoped the Detective didn't lose his job and then he left."

"Thank you, officer McNab," said Vick.

McNab glanced at Lassiter, nodded and walked away.

"Chief-"

Vick shook her head, stopping O'Hara before she could continue to plead her partner's case. "Enough, Detective."

"Yes, Chief."

"Detective Lassiter," said Vick.

Lassiter knew what was coming. He wanted to stand up, take his punishment like a man, but he couldn't. His body still shook and he feared that if he stood, he would fall flat on his face, something his body had been threatening to do since he'd first laid eyes on the case file.

"Considering the circumstances, and the fact that Doctor Isit has decided not to press charges, you will not lose your job . . . today. But consider this. . . Detective, you are the Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department. Your position entails a responsibility, one that you ignore more often than I would like. This is the last time. If you do anything that remotely resembles a loss of temper, a threat to the public, you _will_ lose your job."

He shifted his gaze, his blue eyes clashing with the pale color of his face and stared at Vick, _through_ her, his vision unfocused and nodded in acceptance.

"Now, I believe the worst punishment I can bestow on you at the moment is to have you continue on with this case . . . at least until I can think of a more fitting disciplinary action. Is that understood?"

Continue with the case? It was better than being fired. "Yes, Chief."

"Chief," said O'Hara, "he can't continue on the case. You can see what it's doing to him."

"It's my decision, Detective. And, if you want a reprimand, please continue."

"O'Hara," said Lassiter. "Leave it alone. I'd rather keep my job and continue on with the investigation."

O'Hara let out a slow breath of anger.

Spencer, deciding that the conversation was over, moved to the center of the office, allowing himself plenty of room, and said, "Now that we've dealt with Lassie's badass moment, can we continue with my awesomeness?"

"Detective Lassiter," said Vick, "are you able to continue at this time or would you like to take a moment?"

"I'm fine," he lied.

"Then please, Mr. Spencer, continue."

Lassiter knew his partner was watching him, but he refused to look at her, his lack of acknowledgement a warning that when he felt better, he was going to respond to her betrayal with a barrage of words that. . . he really didn't feel well.

"Aliens did not mutilate that cow," said Spencer.

"Or bull," said Guster.

O'Hara moved away from Lassiter, closer to Spencer, knowing that the sooner they solved this case, the better it would be. "Who did?"

Spencer winced and raised his right hand to his temple as the fingers began to dance. "I sense a cramping," he frowned at O'Hara, his eyebrows raised. "Jules, are you cramping?" O'Hara rolled her eyes. "No, it's not cramping, it's clamping. Steel clamps. Someone put clamps on the hooves of the cow. It was taken from its home and mutilated somewhere else."

"We know that, Shawn," said O'Hara. "There was no blood at the scene, no evidence that the cow was killed where it was found."

"My audience is harsh today," said Spencer. "And yet, Lassie remains silent."

"If you have nothing nice to say. . ." said Lassiter, lifting a heavy hand to rub his forehead, his headache pulsing, stabbing.

"What else do you have, Shawn?"

Spencer concentrated and after a few seconds his face relaxed and his hand dropped back to his side. "At the moment . . . nothing that will help the case."

"It could be a Satanic Cult," said Guster.

"What?" Spencer frowned at Guster. "Gus?"

"I just thought of it," said Guster.

"That's not how we work, Gus," Spencer turned, almost hiding his face in Guster's shoulder, his voice lowering as they began to argue in harsh whispers.

"Gentlemen! Please," said Vick. "Mr. Guster, what makes you think it might be a Satanic Cult."

"They kill animals for ritual sacrifices, don't they?"

"Gus, Satanic Cults left town with the Witches of Eastwick."

"The Witches of Eastwick was a movie, Shawn."

"It was a bad movie, Gus."

"Can we get back on point, please," said Vick.

"So they stole the cow, took it somewhere, sacrificed it and then returned it?" said O'Hara. "Would they go to so much trouble for a sacrifice?"

Lassiter sat forward, his head dizzy. "We can ask them." Everyone turned to look at Lassiter, but he kept his gaze downward. "We had a case a few years back involving a Satanic Cult."

"I remember it," said Vick. "But surely they left town soon after the case was closed."

"They're still here," said Lassiter.

"Then we need to find them."

"They meet every Tuesday morning at the Upham Hotel," said Lassiter. "That's tomorrow."

Guster frowned. "I thought Satanic Cults were secretive?"

"They're a passive group," said Lassiter.

Vick stood up. "Go home. All of you." Her gaze lingered on Lassiter. "You've had a long day. Start fresh in the morning. Talk to the cult and then Flannery."

O'Hara hovered around Lassiter, waiting for her partner, refusing to leave without him.

Lassiter nodded, gripped the chair and pushed himself upright, his legs weak, his body not ready. Darkness drifted on the edge of his vision, slowly pushing inward, filling his eyes, his mind, his body, his knees buckling beneath the weight of it, pitching him forward. Consciousness abandoned him, leaving him to fall flat on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** They Come to Eat Our Green T-Shirts and Not Give us Milk

**Author:** Bernadette

**Rating:** PG

**Summary:** What should have been a simple case turns deadly for Detective Carlton Lassiter.

**Main Characters:** Lassiter, O'Hara, Spencer, Gus, Vick and McNab.

**Disclaimers:** All things Psych owned by Steve Franks and the USA network.

**Thanks to:** lj user="lorency" for the story title and lj user="tpena19" for information that helped create the plot/story.

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The Crown Vic was filled with a silence so thick you could slice it with ease; a knife through jell-o. Lassiter was angry, angry enough to ignore his partner and her constant apologies for revealing his secret fear in front of everyone. He was angry at the world around him, angry enough to shoot the first person to look at him the wrong way. But mostly, he was angry with himself, his fear, his lack of control. He'd fainted – fallen down with his eyes closed – in front of everyone, in front of Spencer. His body had finally given in, falling flat on its face just as it had threatened to do the entire day; not the correct way to deny your body's ability to faint.

It had left him feeling not only angry but humiliated, ashamed that everyone had seen him in a moment of weakness, ashamed that everyone now knew his fear was so strong it could cause his body to close in on itself and shut down. His grip on the steering wheel grew tight, his anger pulsing through him, cloaking him. His body feeling so tight with emotion, he feared he was going to snap, break in two. With a need to let off some steam, Lassiter pressed the heel of his palm against the horn – the car in front of him jerking to the side in surprise before correcting its direction – only letting up when the noise began to aggravate him, to anger him further. He waited for his partner to voice a protest but nothing came and he was grateful because if she spoke now; his anger so strong he would respond with an insult that would make his mother blush and she didn't blush easily. Damn woman could make a sailor's balls go red with embarrassment; not that she was interested in balls these days.

After he had woken, stretched out on the couch, damp cloth on his forehead, his large feet elevated, the Chief had asked that he not continue with the case. Her earlier threat of suspension, of losing his job forgotten but his stubborn pride, the part of him that needed to prove himself said no, keeping him on the case. But silently he had screamed that she make it an order, force his hand and send him home. She hadn't of course, thinking she knew him better than he knew himself, giving him the chance to prove that he wasn't a coward, that he could put his fear aside and close the case. Lassiter, though, wasn't as sure of himself, that he could continue. But as long as his body stayed upright, he would put one foot in front of the other and if he tripped, fell on his face a second time . . . he would stay there.

Pulling to a stop, Lassiter glanced to his left, his gaze searching. From the outside, the Upham Hotel looked more like a home than a place for tourists, the small shingle hanging over the six steps leading to the front door the only thing giving away its true nature. But Lassiter knew of the gardens filling the area behind the hotel; gardens he had once walked through, his wife beside him, hand in hand, their conversation filled with threats of what they would do to each other once they returned to their room. Pushing the memory aside, Lassiter shut down the engine with an angry twist of his wrist and opened the door, his long legs stretching as he exited the car. He slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing his emotions: anger, fear, humiliation. Without waiting for his partner he walked the path and stairs to the front door, opening it and stepping into the hotel's foyer.

At the sight of Spencer and Guster – both wearing an expression Lassiter chose to ignore – standing in the center of the room, Lassiter's heart dropped into his stomach. He stood frozen, his partner stepping around him, in front of him; a barrier between them, a barrier that would not be strong enough to block Lassiter's anger.

"One word, Spencer," said Lassiter, "and I will shoot you."

"And if that one word was 'hug'," said Spencer, his arms out, his expression saying something Lassiter didn't want to hear. "We all know you need one."

"Say it . . . try it and we'll find out."

"Carlton," said O'Hara, turning to face her partner. "Now is not the time."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize we were on speaking terms."

O'Hara sighed, her lips thinning, her gaze moving away.

Lassiter, his anger boiling, his humiliation growing, began to move, walking a familiar path toward one of the Hotel's three Executive Board Rooms. He could hear his partner's presence behind him, moving quickly to keep up with his long strides, could feel the fake psychic and his sidekick bickering as they followed. Resisting the urge to turn and snap an order to shut the hell up, Lassiter opened the door and stepped through into the boardroom.

Chickens. At least a dozen of them lined the far wall; small wire prisons the only thing keeping them from running amuck. A small crowd, a mixture of women and men, young and old sat in chairs around an elfin sized alter, their chatter coming to a halt with Lassiter's intrusion. Their heads turned as one, gazes drifting over the interruption. Lassiter stepped forward when O'Hara pressed against his back, giving her enough space to enter the room then stepped back, his intention to block Spencer and Guster.

There were faces Lassiter recognized and some he didn't. When his gaze fell on a face that was more familiar than he wanted it to be he didn't know whether to grimace or smile; he did the former knowing that this particular person was going to mortify the hell out of him. His cheeks filling with embarrassment, Lassiter moved forward, his partner beside him, the idiots behind him.

Before he could speak, Harriet Singleton, a fifty-four-year-old single mother of three Chihuahuas squealed with joy. He could almost feel his partner's gaze as she turned toward him, a question ready to pass her lips. In his peripheral vision he could see Spencer moving forward, his shoulders back, his chin up; damn idiot must have thought Singleton had squealed her joy at the sight of the fake psychic. Spencer couldn't be more wrong.

When Harriet, her hair a pale shade of purple, began to run toward him, large breasts bouncing like a frog on crack, Lassiter quickly stepped behind his partner, hoping her small frame would protect him from the woman who was about to pounce.

O'Hara, a smile on her face, stepped out of the way, her expression telling Lassiter that he deserved what she knew was about to happen. Her smile grew undeterred when Lassiter glared at her.

Knowing that his ass was about to be groped, Lassiter tensed up and took one for the team, hoping that it would be over very quickly; it wasn't. Harriet gathered him into a hug, her hands quickly moving downward . . .

"Touch it and I will arrest you," said Lassiter, knowing that he would never carry out the threat. He almost liked the woman; in a stroke-my-ego-but-do-not-touch-me kind of way.

In a hug so tight – he thought his bones were about to break – Lassiter couldn't do a thing, as hands cupped his ass and lips painted pink pressed against the side of his face. Words only he could hear told him exactly what Harriet wanted to do to him. He felt his face blush, and his balls shrivel in fear.

At the sound of Spencer's gasp of surprise, Lassiter's ego didn't know what to do; a small part of him wanted to throw this woman's attraction to him in Spencer's face while another part wanted to hand Harriet – breasts and all – over to Spencer. Let him deal with a groping woman who wanted to fuck him dry.

If it weren't for his anger, Lassiter would look toward his partner for help, instead he waited Harriet out, knowing that she would eventually let go.

She finally did . . . a very long three minutes later.

Taking his hand, Harriet led Lassiter to the center of the room, making him the center of attention and in a voice that sounded like finger nails on a chalk board, she introduced Lassiter to her group of devil worshippers.

"For those of you who do not know, this is Head Detective Carlton Lassiter," said Harriet. "Isn't he dreamy?"

Lassiter stepped away when Harriet rubbed up against him – like a cat against a scratching post – allowing her to stumble, taking the opportunity to pull his hand from her grip.

Spencer moved to Lassiter's side and with a sparkle in his eye, said, "Lassie? You know this woman?"

Lassiter fidgeted, his shoulders shifting, his head tilting. "Three years ago, I arrested her for First Degree murder."

"Her husband," said Spencer, nodding as though he knew exactly what Harriet Singleton was capable of.

"No, you idiot. A chicken. She killed a chicken. A sacrifice to some poor bastard only Harriet and her groupie wannabes could worship."

Spencer frowned. "Seriously?"

"Even chickens are covered by the Animal Protection Laws, Spencer."

"It was the best damn day of my life," said Harriet. "Even though he refused my offer of a sexual bribe."

"Sweet, sweet, Harriet," said Spencer. "When it comes to sex, Lassie here is as cold as a witch's breast."

"Tit," said Guster. "Cold as a witch's tit is the saying, Shawn,"

"Gus, I'm not going to argue woman's breasts with you. At least not now. We'll argue breasts later when WWE is on."

"Comparing your chest with John Cena's isn't a valid argument, Shawn" said Guster.

Harriet smiled, turned her back on Spencer and Guster, blinked innocently at Lassiter and said, "I could easily get him hot and bothered . . . all with just a stroke of my tongue. If only he would consent to my sexual advances."

Lassiter made a choking noise, gagging when an intake of air stuck in his throat. "We're here on official business, Miss Singleton."

"He calls me by my last name to remind himself that I'm single." Harriet took Lassiter's left hand and held his palm against her lower abdomen. "You're still in luck, Carlton. I'm one of those late bloomers, yet to go through menopause. I could still have your child. They say that a rear entry position betters the chances of having a girl but I think that's just hear-say. We should test all theories and positions and see what comes of it."

"Was that pun intentional?"

"Of course."

"Then I'd rather turn gay," said Lassiter.

"Miss Singleton," said O'Hara. "We would like to ask you a few questions."

"Not now. Carlton and I are discussing babies," said Harriet.

O'Hara narrowed her eyes, clenched her fists and stepped forward, but before she could say something . . . anything that would constitute an insult, Lassiter held his hand up, the palm facing her. His body language telling her to keep her words to herself. She pressed her lips together in anger but did as requested.

Lassiter knew his demand for silence would only anger his partner more but he didn't care, not now, and not anywhere in the near future. It would be a long time before he forgave her for revealing his fear. Beside him, he could hear Spencer gagging. He turned toward the fake psychic and frowned in painful confusion.

Spencer, his face turning grey, placed the back of his hand against his mouth. "Gus, buddy, I just threw up in my mouth."

"Me too," said Guster, a closed fist against his quivering lips.

"We should find a bucket."

"A large one."

Lassiter glared at them. "Enough!"

Harriet squealed and hugged her fists against her very large breasts. "He's so manly."

Lassiter, his ego secretly enjoying the attention, said, "Have you or have you not sacrificed any cows-"

"Or bulls," said O'Hara, her arms crossed over her chest, her tone betraying her emotions; anger and frustration.

"-to your . . ." Lassiter waved his hand.

"Satan," Harriet reminded him. "Creator of all things."

"Yeah, I'm not going to say that."

"It's not a scary word, Carlton."

"I would find it easier to say vasectomy," said Lassiter. "Now, if you could just answer the question."

"Why do you ask?" said Harriet.

"Yes or no?"

"No."

"Thank you," said Lassiter. "We'll be on our way now."

A voice, both mild and weak in tone, spoke from the center of the room. "Have you considered aliens?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes and turned toward the voice. A tall man, barrel chested, a receding hairline and expanding stomach stood up and with hunched shoulders began to take small steps, his direction taking him toward Lassiter, stopping a few feet away from the detective.

"If you even suggest that aliens sacrifice cows-"

"And bulls," said O'Hara.

"-I will arrest you."

"Arrest me for what?"

Harriet stepped in front of Lassiter. "Ralph, as much as I would love to see my Carlton man-handle you . . . actually, Ralph . . . go ahead."

Lassiter frowned at Harriet. "I'm not going to, as you put it, man-handle anyone. Unless of course he evokes a threatening manner toward myself, my partner, the civilians in this room . . . except those two," he pointed to Spencer and Guster. "He can do what he wants with them."

"Ralph, show him a threatening manner," said Harriet, hands clasped to her breasts, eyes wide with excitement, her large frame trembling with anticipation.

"He's got a gun," said Ralph.

"It's time to leave," said Lassiter as he turned to walk away.

"Just typical," said Ralph. "You walk in here, accuse our group of mutilating cows-"

O'Hara spoke before Lassiter could. "Who said anything about mutilating the cows?"

"You don't have to. We're a devil worshipping cult. You expect us to mutilate and sacrifice. And yet, when Harriet honestly tells you no . . . where's the fucking apology?"

Lassiter turned back, his expression angered, and said," I can apologise to you. After I shoot-"

"Lassie," said Spencer. "One of these days, you're going to have to carry out that threat because seriously, it's beginning to sound as hollow as an empty peanut skittle."

"Shawn," said Guster." I don't think you want to antagonize him right now."

Spencer leaned closer to his friend. "Better us than a civilian."

"We are civilians, Shawn. Do not put me in the line of fire."

O'Hara's phone buzzed loudly enough to silence Spencer's response. She walked away from the group, the testosterone, her partner, as the conversation – if you could call it that – continued.

"Spencer," said Lassiter. "Keeping pushing me and we'll find out if there's a peanut in the skittle."

"If there is, can I eat it?"

"Would you have more than one?" said Guster.

"We haven't eaten since breakfast," said Spencer, turning to Guster. "If it comes to it, we may have to ruuuuumble for it."

Lassiter shook his head in bewilderment. He would never understand those two. He turned toward his partner only to be confronted once more by Ralph, who, undeterred by Lassiter's anger or threats took one step closer and continued his barrage.

"There have been thousands of cases where cattle have been mutilated since the early 1970's and who gets the blame? We do. Do the authorities take into account the radiation found at the mutilation sites? The lack of footprints? The UFO sightings? No. Why? Because their too anal to believe that something not of this world could be responsible."

"Harriet, if you don't put a leash on your groupie, I will."

Harriet sighed in disappointment. "Ralph, enough, please. You're upsetting the others."

"Aliens," said Ralph, turning his back on Lassiter and walking to his chair. "You should be questioning the aliens. Ask them if they did it."

"You show me an alien and I'll ask it," said Lassiter, not feeling childish at all.

Aliens! First Flannery. Then Isit and now this idiot. What were these people thinking? What were they drinking? Two parts vodka, one part hallucinogen? Lassiter wouldn't be surprised if they knew each other, huddled in the darkened corner of their local bar, drinking their way to the idiotic belief that aliens existed, not only in the real world but in their own world of lunacy. Perhaps all three of them were in on it; an insane way to . . .

It was worth a try.

"Harriet?"

Lassiter almost rolled his eyes at her eager response of, "Yes, Carlton. I won't do anything you don't want me to. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable in your own bed."

"Do you have any members missing from your meeting today? A Mr. Flannery or a Dr. Isit?"

There was no hesitation in her answer. "No. Why do you ask? Do you want them to join us?"

Spencer, his gag reflex exaggerated, said, "Bucket! My kingdom for a bucket."

"Okay," said Lassiter, moving toward his partner. "O'Hara, it's time to leave."

O'Hara held up a forefinger, telling Lassiter to be quiet. She spoke a few more words and then hung up, placing her pink cell phone back into her jacket pocket.

"That was McNab," said O'Hara, her eyes reflecting the exciting prospect of a new lead. "Four years ago Flannery lived in the state of Kentucky where he tried to make an insurance claim after six of his cattle died. The insurance company refused to pay, claiming that his cattle didn't die of natural causes. Autopsies were done but the cause of death is listed as 'unknown'. There was a criminal investigation but there was no proof that Flannery killed his own cattle."

"We're rolling," said Lassiter, announcing his intention to the room. "Harriet! If you kill any of those chickens I _will_ arrest you."

Harriet squealed in both joy and disappointment.

.

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.

This time, there had been no wrong turns, no infuriatingly incorrect directions, no hesitation caused by fear because surely, Flannery didn't have a cow sitting at his kitchen table; his accelerated speed leaving Spencer and Guster behind, a speck of blue dust on his rear-view mirror. Lassiter had known, with every twitching muscle in his body, they would be closing the case before the day was over, make an arrest and all of it without Spencer's so-called divine interventions; man needed an intervention. Things had finally gone Lassiter's way.

Or so he had thought.

With the threat of rain hovering above him, Lassiter stood, hands on his hips, fingers of his right hand spread over the badge clipped to his belt, his fear controlled by his anger; it helped that there were no cows in sight. Flannery's ramshackle house, its roof in desperate need of repair was on his left, an excessively large tool shed on his right, a broken tractor behind him. O'Hara stood beside him, her feet slightly apart, the familiar frown between her eyebrows. It had taken them only minutes to search the house and tool shed, finding both empty. There was no truck in the driveway. No sign of life. No Flannery.

The small farm was desolate, seemingly abandoned, tumbleweeds drifting across their path. They had missed him, by minutes or hours, Lassiter didn't know; couldn't understand that the man had gotten away.

The silence between them was heavy with anger and frustration, both unsure of what to do next. A BOLO was obvious, but after that . . .

Lassiter turned on his heels; a small whirlpool of dust the result, searching for something, anything that would give him a clue, a direction that would lead him straight to Flannery.

"There's got to be something," said Lassiter, his words muttered, not meant to be heard.

O'Hara, hearing his words, despite his attempt to hide them, turned with her partner, her own gaze searching. "We'll find him, Carlton."

Lassiter growled in anger, his left hand clenching, the need to strike something so strong. There, just beyond the grove of trees, its dehydrated roof peeking through the branches. Why hadn't they seen it before now? How could they have been so stupid?

"The barn," said Lassiter, taking off at a run, his long strides leaving his partner behind.

With the knowledge that her partner would not go in without her, O'Hara stayed calm, her pace controlled, unhurried, sensible shoes keeping her upright. She reached the front of the barn almost a full minute behind her partner. His angry gaze shrank her frame, folding her over, as he pointed to the side of the barn before holding up two fingers. A request that she wait two minutes before going in through the barn's front door.

Lassiter, fighting to control his anger, began to make his way down the side of the barn, his upper body hunched over, and the comfortable weight of his Glock in his right hand. He slowed his pace as he reached the end of the side wall. Taking another breath, Lassiter raised the Glock and stepped around the corner; nothing but a large mound of rotting hay bales. He clenched his teeth, a knot of tension tightening his jaw, his neck, moving up into the back of his skull. It was only now that Lassiter wondered if there was even a back door. An internal slap at his stupidity before stepping forward, right leg crossing over his left, keeping his upper body turned, his left hip, his left shoulder toward the bales of feed. There was a small door, open, just beyond the hay bales. The knot of tension eased as he continued, his crab like steps moving him closer to the door and beyond the pile of hay.

Something slammed into his back, forcing him down, his gun trapped beneath him. His first thought; that asshole Flannery had gotten the best of him. Lassiter grunted out the air in his lungs when a weight fell on his back, a knee between his shoulder blades. A hand, large enough to cover the back of his skull, pressed his face into the dirt, blinding him. Lassiter struggled, to raise his head, his upper body but the person above him was too strong, keeping him pinned to the ground. Lassiter's second thought; Flannery wasn't capable of this, the man too small, too weak . . . too stupid.

While Lassiter fought to gain his breath, to gain his voice long enough to warn his partner, while his face was still pressed against the dry packed earth beneath him, he was dragged forward toward the small door at the back of the barn. He kicked with his legs, his lungs bursting in their struggle to breathe, his gun still beneath him. He was going to black out, Lassiter was sure of it.

His mouth filled with dust and his eyes watered. Skin scraped from his cheek; the hand keeping his head down unrelenting in its strength. Stars circled his vision, the threatening darkness hovering on the edge, waiting impatiently to drag Lassiter down into its depths.

And then, finally, his lungs responded to his silent pleas, taking a deep breath, clearing his head, filling his throat with dust. His assailant paused in front of the door, no doubt trying to figure out how to get Lassiter inside without revealing his face to the detective.

Lassiter took the opportunity given to him, lifting his upper body – if only an inch – freeing his gun, raising it toward the man above him. A booted foot connected with the back of Lassiter's skull, his body convulsing in pain, the Glock falling from his fingers. With his senses lost and out of control, Lassiter was unaware when he was pulled into the barn, the sudden darkened shadows mistaken for a near loss of consciousness.

The smell of something rotten filled Lassiter's nostrils, and he realized with surprised clarity that it was the same smell that had come out of the cow Isit had examined. Beneath the pain, Lassiter smiled; the bad odour proof that Flannery had killed his own cattle. Now, if he could get out of this predicament with his life intact, he could go after Flannery, but first he had to deal with the insane idiot holding him down.

A second kick to back of his head left Lassiter dazed and uncoordinated, flat on his face. From this position he could see his attacker's feet, the man's boots; large, hideous boots. And then the darkness, unwelcome, took over, everything fading to black.

.

.

.

Consciousness didn't come easily for Lassiter, fighting his way through the darkness like a blind man trying to find safe passage through a stranger's house; lumbering confusion, every bump a painful reminder that something was not right with his world. It felt as though his skull was skewed, off kilter, cloaked within an aching pain worse than any hangover. Placing the palm of his hand against his forehead did nothing to stop the spinning, shadows shifting to and fro, disorienting him. He sighed, letting out a breath that mimicked a painful groan.

Fingers, not his own, gently fell against the back of his skull causing him to jerk away in surprise and pain; his stomach rolled. This time he did groan, loudly and unashamedly. Damn that had hurt. And then he remembered what had happened. Not a colossal hangover but a boot to the back of his head . . . twice.

"Carlton?"

Lassiter wasn't ready to answer, his jaw clenched as he rode out the pain, waves of it crashing against the inside of his skull. He held his head in both hands, a comforting grip and drew his knees toward his chest in an attempt to keep his stomach calm. It all helped, a little, enough to ease the pain, to calm his stomach. Uncurling his body, Lassiter opened his eyes, finding it an easy thing to do in the near darkness. Had the day passed into night already?

When something pale swam in his vision, drowning in the shadows, Lassiter frowned. He blinked, hoping to bring it into focus. His partner's delicate ankles, pale skin separating her dark trousers from her shoes; he'd recognize them anywhere. Sometimes he worried that he knew O'Hara too well. He lifted his gaze - carefully - and her worried expression caused his anger to deflate. Why he thought he could stay angry with her he didn't know.

Knowing that she had his full attention, O'Hara said, "Carlton, trust me when I tell you this. Do not turn around."

She may as well have told him not to push the red button labeled 'Do Not Push'. He turned his head, the movement causing his brain to sway a little to the left, the darkness visiting the edges of his vision before making excuses and leaving.

O'Hara moved quickly, stepping over her partner and crouched down in front of him, attempting to block his line of sight but she was doing a piss-poor job of hiding what lay on the other side of the barn, her frame too small to hide such a large animal.

A cow, dead or alive, lay on its side, head toward the wall, ass toward Lassiter.

Lassiter's heart stood still and he feared it would never beat again. His body reacted, a childhood fear controlling him as he quickly stood up on limbs that refused to hold him; his body shaking so badly that his knees buckled under him, dropping him on his ass. But he didn't stop, the ingrained need to run forcing him to move, whether his body was willing or not. Arms locked straight, his ass scraping against the ground, and with knees bent, he pushed himself backward until he hit the wall behind him with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs.

He could no longer breathe, his chest so tight with fear, so painful. A pitiful sound, his lungs hungry for oxygen, escaped his throat. And then he felt his heart as it began to beat once more, pounding so hard it physically hurt, an ache so strong he feared his heart were about to burst. A pitiful sight he must be but it didn't stop his body from going into a full blown panic attack.

O'Hara swore, the phrase colourful, before moving forward. She stopped in front of her partner and knelt down. Careful of the raw patch of skin on his left cheek, O'Hara placed her hands on Lassiter's face and forced him to look at her. His pupils were blown wide with fear, the hoarse sounds telling her that he was having trouble breathing.

"Carlton! Look at me," said O'Hara. "It's dead. I've already checked. It's dead. If you think it will make you feel better, you can shoot it. Repeatedly."

Lassiter's anxiety lifted to a higher level, the inability to take a deep breath, to calm himself making everything so much worse. His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, the emotion an added obstacle. Acknowledging to himself that he had to calm down – he had no choice – Lassiter closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing, on the feel of his partner's hands on his face, her warm breath against his cool flesh.

It didn't happen quickly, taking what felt like hours before his beating heart slowed, becoming less painful as it continued to pound against his ribcage; slow but still tender, bruised. He breathed with more ease, his lungs no longer anorexic. His anxiety at a level where he felt it would no longer kill him; because it had felt as though he were dying, an excruciatingly slow death.

"Carlton?"

He lowered his head, his embarrassment pulling him down with the need to hide himself from her scrutiny, missing her touch instantly.

"Would you like to shoot it? Would it help?"

Lassiter wanted to smile at the suggestion but couldn't, instead shaking his head; it wouldn't help. Now that the panic attack had eased, he was reminded of his aching skull, his unsettled stomach, a numb pain between his shoulder blades. Why couldn't this day be over? Surely it couldn't get any worse.

O'Hara waited patiently for a verbal response from her partner, sitting back on her knees, her hands in her lap but none came.

"Carlton. There's more."

Thinking that the world was about to end, Lassiter looked up and noticed that O'Hara wasn't looking at him, staring back over her shoulder. He leant to the side, searching for the object of her scrutiny.

Just like the cow, on his side, ass toward Lassiter, head toward the wall, lay Flannery. Dead or alive? Lassiter couldn't really tell from this distance and as though she had read his mind, O'Hara said, "He's dead."

Things may have just gotten worse but it certainly wasn't the end of the world. It was simply an indication that there was another suspect. He could deal with that. It would give him something to think about. Examining Flannery would take his mind off his fear, off the cow . . .

"And we're locked in. I can't find a way out.

Okay, that was something entirely different, something that could possibly bring his world to an abrupt end.

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **They Come to Eat Our Green T-Shirts and Not Give us Milk  
><strong>Author: <strong>Bernadette  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Case File, Hurt/Comfort  
><strong>Summary: <strong>What should have been a simple case turns deadly for Detective Carlton Lassiter.  
><strong>Main Characters: <strong>Lassiter, O'Hara, Spencer, Gus, Vick and McNab.  
><strong>Disclaimers: <strong>All things Psych owned by Steve Franks and the USA network. The cow deaths mentioned in this story are real.  
><strong>Thanks to: <strong> **lorency** for the story title and **tpena19** for information that helped create the plot/story.

.

.

.

This can't be happening. It was one thing to be in a room with a dead cow, an open doorway at his back but this . . . stuck in a barn with a cow that might, or might not be, dead, and no open exit . . . anywhere. He could feel the panic knocking at his door, his anxiety pushing back up into his throat, blocking his airway. Not again. Not. Again. Lassiter stood up and began to pace; four steps to the left, turn, four steps to the right, trembling hands on his hips, back to the cow at all times, his breath pulled through clenched teeth. His chest ached with a pain both sharp and dull. Thoughts scrambled through his brain, teasing and tormenting him. Please, a heart attack, another kick to the back of his head, anything that would take him away from this. He stopped mid-step, his head dizzy, his stomach nauseated, waiting to fall unconscious, fall flat on his face in a dead faint where he would gladly stay.

Nothing. Not even a darkening of shadows.

Someone, somewhere, hated him. There was no other reason for this fucked up case.

Lassiter. Calm. The. Fuck. Down.

O'Hara stayed where she was, crouched down, sitting back on her ankles. She watched her partner, his pacing awkward, like a badly played tennis match, her eyes bouncing left to right and back again. She bit her bottom lip, her worried frown appearing between her neatly trimmed eyebrows.

"Carlton."

Lassiter ignored the worried tone in O'Hara's voice, raised a hand to his head and attempted to rub the sight of the - dead or not dead - cow from his eyes. Bright, almost blinding colors, flashed in the darkness behind the lids causing the ache in his skull to shift to a more painful level. He removed his hand, pressed the palm against his forehead and closed his eyes. The feel of flesh, warm and clammy caused him to move his hand quickly upward and over his skull, his fingers brushing through hair damp with sweat. He let his hand rest against the back of his neck for a moment, squeezing the tense muscles before dropping his hand down to his side.

"Carlton," said O'Hara, quickly standing and moving forward, her movements graceful, too quick for Lassiter to back out of the way, out of her reach. She grabbed his wrists, her fingers searching until they found Lassiter's, gripping them tightly, a little too tightly. "Listen to me! I told you. It's dead. I checked."

He raised his gaze and saw the truth in her eyes. O'Hara would never lie to him. Lassiter grimaced in anger, his injured cheek painful. She would never lie, had never lied . . . until yesterday. She had told him that she wouldn't tell anyone about his fear, but she had, telling Vick, with Spencer and Guster in the room. And if she had so readily told Vick, then maybe she _had_ told Spencer because the idiot couldn't have found out about his fear any other way. Spencer wasn't psychic. He was a bad actor with delusions of grandeur.

He needed a distraction, something to take his mind off . . . Do. Not. Think. About. It. Flannery; asshole with penis envy, not the best of distractions but he'll do. Pulling his hands from O'Hara's grasp, Lassiter began to move, close to the wall, back to the cow, his gut clenching in painful anxiety when the dead cow appeared in his peripheral. Ignore it. Just. Ignore. It.

Reaching Flannery's side, Lassiter knelt down and leaned forward, his upper body above the rancher, his gaze searching the dead man. Flannery wasn't a pretty sight; dead or alive. Blood and brain matter covered the back of his skull, like ugly wall paper. Definitely dead. The smell was just as bad; Lassiter's stomach was not happy, the sight and smell causing it to roll over and play dead before it settled. The blue overalls were soiled, bowels giving themselves up to death. Lassiter grimaced. He would never get use to the odor, or the sight, no matter how much time he spent with the dead. Good company a cadaver did not make.

Okay then. What did they have?

Their first suspect murdered in an extremely violent manner. He frowned, searching the immediate area for a murder weapon, refusing to look at . . . Do. Not. Think. About. It. Deep breath. Nothing but rotting hay. No murder weapon found; a more thorough search would happen later. His second suspect was unknown. Their suggested alien suspect was non-existent, in this world or any other.

Fucked up wasn't a descriptive enough phrase for this case.

"Carlton, do you want to tell me what happened?" said O'Hara, moving closer to Lassiter, stopping a few feet away from him.

Digging his fingers into his thighs, the pain too dull to distract his thoughts, his anger, Lassiter clenched his jaw, an attempt to keep the words at bay. He really didn't want to converse with her. Not now. He kept his gaze on Flannery, the dead man's skull, hands, feet, anything that would give him an excuse not to look back over his shoulder, toward his partner, toward the . . . Don't think about it.

"Carlton! This isn't the time for a silent tantrum."

Tantrum? What in the hell did she think he was? A child.

"Carlton, please, talk to me."

He reacted to her words without thinking, the abrupt change in her tone pulling his gaze upward and back over his shoulder. He saw a lot of things. His partner, her face an expression of mixed emotions. Her lips pursed in anger, her expression telling him that she wasn't going to take anymore of his crap; one step away from slapping him silly. Her eyes a contradiction, filled with concern, with worry. He saw the cow, his fear chocking him, invisible fingers around his throat. Damn it. Turning his back on his partner, the cow, Lassiter glared at the back of Flannery's skull, concentrating on the congealing blood, the splinters of bone, the flecks of grey; a macabre smorgasbord.

"Carlton, your silence is beginning to scare me," said O'Hara, taking a single step closer, her hand reaching toward him.

Lassiter took a breath, opened his mouth, ready to spill his guts, tell her everything . . . What was it about her that got him talking, that had him giving up, surrendering his heart and soul to her.

O'Hara spoke again, interrupting his intention to admit anything and everything. "I came in and you were . . ."

Oh. He thought . . . That. Now that was different. He could talk about that. As awkward as it was.

Keeping his gaze on the cadaver at his feet, Lassiter quickly explained to his partner, his tone filled with a calm he did not feel, what had happened, including the embarrassing fact that he had been unable to defend himself, that he had lost the thing that meant the most to him; his gun.

"Did you see anything? His face? Something that could identify him?"

"Didn't I just say that he kept my face to the ground? He was strong, too strong," said Lassiter, raising his hand, his fingers gently probing the rakes of raw skin on the side of his face. "No, wait. I saw his shoes. Boots. Biker boots."

"What did they look like?"

"Ugly. Blue . . . or black." He shook his head, trying to shift the image closer, to sharpen it. "There was a buckle on the side. Something colorful . . . I think. I don't . . ."

"Flannery was still warm when I checked him," said O'Hara.

"It had to have been the guy who jumped me," said Lassiter. "He beat Flannery's brains in . . . or in this case, out of his skull. Left him here like a calf dead at birth. Oh . . . Why did I have to say calf?"

So stupid. He'd been distracted, not thinking about it. Stupid. The dead cow had been out of sight, almost out of mind but now. His heart pounded against his ribcage, his stomach danced with anxiety. His legs shook, and when his body tilted to the left, he was grateful, thinking he was going to fall, faint.

He growled in protest when O'Hara took his arm and pulled him to his feet, her arm quickly embracing his waist, keeping him steady and upright. She led him away from Flannery, their steps small and slow, toward the darkened area where the right wall met the back wall of the barn.

"You need to sit down," said O'Hara as she introduced him to the corner, pushing him down, sitting him on his ass, his shoulders resting against the wall.

Lassiter nodded, regretted it when his head spun and his gaze shifted out of focus. He straightened his legs, crossing his ankles and let his head fall back. That hurt. Idiot. He'd just rest his eyes, hopefully fall asleep and . . . It was like a distorted drive-in movie, a cow, head down, charging toward him. His eyes snapped open. He couldn't just sit here. His mind wasn't going to rest, leave him alone. Damn thing would just keep reminding him of his fear, whispering that the cow laying a few feet away from him was going to get up and . . .

He jumped to his feet, his scrambled brain snapping in pain. No. He couldn't just sit here. He had to do something. Anything. The doors. Have to check the doors. Should have done that first. Stupid. Damn stupid.

O'Hara, sitting down next to her partner, responded in much the same way, jumping to her feet. She grabbed his elbow, pulling, tugging, trying to get him to sit back down. "Carlton!"

"No," said Lassiter, pulling his arm out of her hand. "I need to do something. I need to check the doors. I can open them."

"No, you can't. There is no way out. I've checked. We're just going to have to wait for Shawn and Gus . . . who should have been here by now."

Oh hell no. That was _not_ going to happen.

Lassiter moved with determination, a speed that hid his body's fatigue, his legs threatening to collapse beneath him. First the small door at the back of the barn, it was the closest. He tested it with both hands, pushing it. He used his left shoulder, back to the cow, knees slightly bent, slamming his shoulder against the door. The wood bowed slightly outward, giving the impression that it wanted to break open, changing its mind, refusing to do anything except stay closed.

"Damn it!"

"Carlton, you need to calm down."

"I. Am. Calm."

O'Hara sighed, a loud movement of air. She watched again as her partner moved, his steps still awkward. It only took a heartbeat, a moment of uncertainly and then she was moving, echoing Lassiter's steps, arms ready to catch him when he fell.

The set of double doors at the front. He rushed toward them, his panic building. He needed to get out. He had to get out. He cursed when O'Hara got in his way, stumbling around her, only managing to keep his balance. Without stopping, he almost fell against the doors, his heels trying to dig into the ground as he used his legs to push forward. The doors moved, enough for him to see the thick chain and combination lock. They weren't going to open.

Lassiter turned, pressed his back, his shoulders against the door, his chest heaving, his breathing difficult. Calm. Down. Calm. The. Fuck. DOWN. He couldn't do it. His panic was rising, trying to take control. Images flashed in his mind. Dead or not, that damn cow was going to get up. He was sure of it.

His gaze, frantic, searched for anything that would get him out of this barn and away from that cow. Four walls and a roof. No windows. No stalls. Not even a hayloft that he could climb into. A large space of nothing. Almost nothing. A dead cow in one corner. A dead man in another.

Almost nothing.

His partner stood in front of him, too close, her face full of concern.

And there behind her, on the right side of the barn was a tarp, something large and awkward beneath it. He ran toward it, his steps long, panicked. When he reached the lump, he pulled the tarp away. A small hydraulic lift with a simple pulley system attached to its side. Beside it, a small upright freezer. Lassiter ignored the freezer. That's how they moved the cows from their initial place of death to where they were ultimately found. Smart. Very smart.

"O'Hara," said Lassiter, turning, searching . . . He didn't need to search far. She was almost on top of him. He jumped in surprise. "Damn it, O'Hara.

O'Hara stepped even closer, around her partner. She smiled. "That's how they moved the cows-"

"And bulls," said Lassiter. "I thought you said you checked everything?"

"I said I checked the cow. Flannery and the doors."

Lassiter narrowed his eyes. "Next time, check everything."

"We can't move it on our own, Carlton. It's too heavy."

"Maybe we can use the pulley system . . ."

O'Hara leaned closer. "Too short, won't reach the doors."

The sight of the lift, the pulley system had calmed him, given him an idea, a way out but O'Hara was right. They couldn't move it, not on their own and the pulley system wasn't going to reach. He knelt down, searching the wall on either side of the hydraulic lift, looking for a gap large enough . . . Lassiter stood and kicked out, the heel of his boot slamming against the wall, again and again, trying the break the wood. For a building that, from the outside, had looked as though it were about to collapse, was solid, unmovable and unbreakable.

His shoulders slumping if defeat, Lassiter turned his attention to the small freezer, his heart beating too fast. Hoping that it was full of alcohol, because if he couldn't get out, he could at least get drunk, he opened the door and reached in, the cold air embracing his hand.

And then he saw them.

Genitals. Some in plastic bags, others in small clear plastic containers, labels describing them as male or female; not that he needed to be told. Some were yet to be contained, the freezer racks beneath them covered in congealed blood. And there was something else. Worms, what looked to be dead Earth worms.

Not what he had been expecting.

"That's the smell that was coming from the cow at Isit's surgery," said O'Hara, so close to Lassiter that they were touching.

"What?" said Lassiter as he closed the door, shutting away the grisly scene before him. He took a step back, away from the freezer, away from his partner, his stomach even less happy than it had been.

"The Earth worms. I knew I recognized that smell. Ewan, when he was younger, had a worm farm. When the worms died they gave off a rotten smell. The same odor coming from the cow Isit examined. It must have had dead worms somewhere inside it."

"Why would anyone put dead Earth worms in a dead cow?"

"It's not a familiar smell. Maybe Flannery wanted a smell he could attribute to-"

"Do not say aliens, O'Hara."

"Not many people would recognize the smell. Isit didn't."

"Isit's an idiot," said Lassiter.

"Those genitals must have been taken from Flannery's cows-"

"And bulls," said Lassiter, his voice a whisper. "You don't think I already know that."

O'Hara turned toward him, her eyes narrowed in anger. "This isn't my fault, Carlton."

Lassiter felt guilty, not enough to apologize but he did look away. At Flannery. The cow. The doors. He couldn't get out. He couldn't move the hydraulic lift and the pulley system wasn't long enough. He couldn't . . .

"Can I borrow your gun," said Lassiter, facing O'Hara once again.

Tilting her head in confusion, O'Hara said, "What? Why? Oh. Carlton, no. You can't. You have everything to live for."

"Not me! The cow."

She relaxed, her entire body shifting from tense to calm in a matter of seconds. "No. It's dead. You can't kill it."

"I want to be sure."

"You don't trust me?"

"I trusted you with my fear and what did you do with that secret? You told Spencer. How else could he know?"

"Carlton," said O'Hara, shaking her head. "I told Vick because I thought it would get you off the case. You can't do this. Look at what it's doing to you. You fainted once-"

"I did not faint."

"I'm sorry, Carlton. I thought I was helping."

"You didn't help and now they know."

O'Hara nodded and moved toward the back of the barn. She sat down, her back against the wall, her knees against her chest and her arms around her knees.

"How do I know you didn't tell Spencer?"

"I didn't tell him, Carlton. I don't care anymore if you believe me or not."

Just the sight of her, huddled against the back wall . . . She looked so . . .

"He wants to hug me," said Lassiter.

"We all want to hug you."

"I can't stay in here. Not with . . ."

"Come and sit down. Before I shoot you."

His lips shifted, a small smile gracing his features. He did as he was told, moving slowly toward his partner and sitting down next to her, his shoulder touching hers. He stretched his long legs out before him and crossed his arms.

O'Hara began to talk and Lassiter listened, knowing that his partner, her voice, was the only thing left that could distract him from . . . Do. Not. Think. About. It.

"We know it was Flannery's idea to kill his cattle. He's done it before. He's doing it again. But who was helping him? Who mutilated his cattle for him?"

Lassiter didn't hesitate. "Isit."

"Carlton, just because you don't like the guy, doesn't mean he killed and mutilated Flannery's cattle."

But Lassiter had a gut feeling and he always listened to his gut. At the moment, his gut, full of anxiety, was telling him to run but he had nowhere to go. He couldn't get out. Maybe if he forcefully took O'Hara's gun . . .

"Who else is there?" said Lassiter. "Isit's an expert. He would know how to mutilate."

"There's the other expert Isit mentioned. Dr. Norman Merchant."

"He's in New England."

"No, I called. They told me he was on vacation but couldn't tell me where."

"And you didn't tell me this very important piece of information because?" said Lassiter.

"I was waiting to hear back from McNab. He was doing a background check for me. Checking Merchant's last credit card transactions. Trying to get a location on the guy."

It was obvious. He could have slapped himself. Why couldn't he think? Why did his fear turn his brain into scrambled eggs? "Cell phones."

Beside him, O'Hara sighed, the sound telling him what he didn't want to know. "Don't tell me. No signal, you checked already."

"I checked already. No signal."

"Thanks for not telling me that."

"You're welcome," said O'Hara. "Even if Flannery's partner did kill and mutilate, why would he kill Flannery?"

"It'll be an obvious reason we haven't thought of yet," said Lassiter. "Did you see him?"

"What?"

Lassiter turned to his partner. "When you came into the barn. Did you see him?"

"No, just you. I thought . . ." O'Hara took a breath.

He waited her out, knowing that if it had been the other way around, if he had come in and found her lying there, so still . . .

"By the time I started moving . . . Whoever it was-"

"Isit." Lassiter was so sure.

"-had moved around to the front. He locked us in before I could . . . I was too slow. I'm sorry, Carlton."

Lassiter ignored her apology. It wasn't needed. "He was quick."

"Yeah, very quick. Isit doesn't give me that impression. Back in Vick's office, when you hit him. He didn't fight back. He seemed so clumsy."

"Don't judge a book by its cover, O'Hara. In this job . . . You should have learnt that by now."

"You're right. It could be Isit," said O'Hara. "It could be Merchant. It could be anyone."

"What does your gut tell you?"

No hesitation. "Isit."

They fell silent, neither knowing what else to say. The small freezer's engine ticked, like a watch, indicating that time was passing . . . slowly. A fly buzzed, its movements confused, pulled between two cadavers. It finally settled on Flannery, landing on the side of his face, crawling up into the left nostril.

For Lassiter the silence was uncomfortable, his mind taking the opportunity to feed his fear. He had to say something, anything. Start a conversation. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. It was a mistake of course, he had been thinking about cows.

"Cows can be damn scary, O'Hara. Have you ever been chased by one?" He could hear the shake of her head. "I have. Scares the crap out of you. They're faster and meaner than you think. They have short stamina and they don't corner well. I've been saved by a fence, a haystack, a horse and Hank. And trust me, O'Hara, the image of a large bovine, head down, and charging you, it stays in your mind a long time. Most cattle are mellow and they're not interested in humans at all but there are some who just seem to hate people and have no trouble letting them know it. The cow at Old Sonora . . . It hated me. Don't know why. Just did."

O'Hara stayed silent, her fingers itching to touch him, to hold him, like a mother comforting a child after a terrible nightmare.

Lassiter leaned his head back, grimacing when the small knots on the back of his skull touched the wall. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes; easier to talk that way.

"Every Saturday. That cow would chase me. Hank figured out what was happening. One day he appeared like a knight in shining amour, riding his horse. Didn't stop. Just came between me and the cow and pulled me up onto the back of his horse. He wouldn't let it happen again. Got rid of the cow the next day. But the fear had stuck. I can't get rid of it."

"There's no need to be afraid of them, Carlton. Cows don't-"

"Yes they do, O'Hara." Counting them off on the fingers of his right hand and with his eyes still closed, Lassiter said, "November, 2005, a sixty-five-year old male was killed when he was kicked in the head by a cow. August, 2007, a forty-five-year old male was killed by a bull when he was walking through a field. January, 2008, a seventy-two-year old male was killed when he was rammed by a bull when feeding cattle. May, 2008-"

"You're beginning to scare me," said O'Hara.

He opened his eyes, turned his head and looked at his partner. She was serious.

"There's more, O'Hara. A lot more."

"I believe you."

Lassiter nodded, thankful that she did believe him because if she hadn't, if she had thought he was a crazed lunatic with an irrational fear of cows he would . . . He didn't know what he would do.

"You should see someone about your fear. Some cognitive therapy could help you."

Just the thought of her suggestion caused his breath to catch, his heart to pound and the fear to grip him in a hug so tight his chest began to ache. Cognitive therapy. They would stick him in a room with a cow and close the door and ask him, 'Between one and ten, what is your level of anxiety right now?'

"Isn't sitting a few feet away from a cow cognitive therapy?"

"Not when it's a dead," said O'Hara.

"It's a start."

"Do you want to make a start?"

"If I don't see another cow in my entire life, I'll believe Shawn Spencer is psychic."

O'Hara smiled. She reached out and patted Lassiter's knee. "Even with a fear of cows, you're the bravest man I know, Carlton."

Lassiter frowned at her.

"Too much," said O'Hara.

"I feel a sudden need to see a dentist," said Lassiter.

In the distance, the growl of a pitiful engine tried to leave its mark on the world. Lassiter stood up, his balance uneven, his body floating adrift. He took a breath, waited impatiently for his tall frame to calm itself and moved forward; his sense of direction awkward. His partner moved with him, her body so close, he continued to bump into her.

O'Hara kept her balance, pressing against Lassiter in an attempt to keep him upright and moving in a straight line. "It has to be Shawn and Gus."

Lassiter stopped in front of the double doors and pushed, putting his weight against them, a futile attempt to force them open. He pressed an eye to a small opening and searched the area visible to him, seeing nothing but hearing plenty.

A car horn, an irritating whistle and a shout.

"Lassie! Here boy!"

Lassiter clenched his teeth, not willing to respond to such a request. Damn it. He wasn't a dog. He looked at his partner and nodded, indicating that he wanted her to respond.

O'Hara rolled her eyes. "Shawn! We're in the barn!"

After what felt like hours to Lassiter, Spencer and Guster finally came into sight. "Spencer!"

"Lassie! Are you happy to see us?"

He watched through the gap as the two idiots came closer, stopping in front of the doors. Watched as Spencer tested the chain and lock. Watched as Spencer frowned before putting his hand to his temple.

"Spencer! Don't you dare divine that we are locked in here!"

"Lassie," said Spencer. "You know me so well. And yet, I must disappoint you. I was going to divine that you're locked in there with a dead cow."

Lassiter's mouth opened in surprise, his eyebrows pushed upward. "What? How?"

"I'm psychic."

"You are not psychic."

O'Hara pushed her partner aside, stared through the small gap at Spencer, and said, "Shawn, you need to find something to break the chain."

Spencer's fingers fluttered against his temple. "No need, Jules. I have the combination already."

Lassiter pushed back. O'Hara stumbled, grabbing hold of the edge of the door before she could fall flat on her face. "Open the door, Spencer! Now!"

"Excuse me, Lassie. My colleague and I need to step into the don't-interrupt-while-I'm-rescuing-Jules room."

"Spencer!" He watched as Spencer and Guster moved away, as they argued, voices so low, Lassiter couldn't understand a word. "Spencer, so help me, if you don't get us out of here now, I am not only going to shoot you, I'm going to kick your ass."

"Someone found themselves a peanut skittle," said Spencer as he stepped back in front of the door.

Guster, moving with his partner, pulled a packet of skittles from his back pocket. "Luckily, we stopped and got our own."

"That and we ended up in the Land of Nod."

"You took a nap?" said O'Hara.

"No, Jules. We got lost."

"Just open the damn door!"

"Don't get your man-pants in a knot, Lassie."

"Shawn," said O'Hara.

"I need you to turn your backs."

O'Hara grimaced and puffed out a breath of impatience. She turned her back and when her partner refused to do the same, she grabbed him. She didn't care where, her fingers finding his trousers and pulling, giving Lassiter no real choice but to turn around.

Lassiter could see only one thing; the dead cow . . . And it moved. He swore it moved. Its ear twitching, its eye blinking. And as much as he tried not to, Lassiter panicked. His heart felt like it had exploded, pounding so hard he was sure his ribs would crack. His lungs froze, unable to take another breath. He bent over, hands against his knees and struggled to breathe through the heavy weight sitting on his chest. He couldn't. His lungs were starving, a slow painful death. A hand against his back encouraged him to breathe. His lungs refused to listen, deaf to his body's demands, its threats. He couldn't breathe. The panic grew to a level Lassiter had never experienced before. His knees buckled and he fell. When his chest hit the ground, it felt as though his heart had been pushed into this throat.

"Shawn! Now!"

O'Hara filled Lassiter's vision, kneeling in front of him, her own panic written all over her face. "Carlton. Please. Breathe."

He couldn't.

Light spilled into the barn, bright blinding sunlight. The doors were open. He had to get up. He had to get out. He couldn't. Darkness crawled along the edges of his vision, slow but determined. And then he began to move, not by his own power. Hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him up and out of the barn, his lungs still refusing to take a breath, his heart beating wildly, painfully, his vision dimming.

"Sit him down," said O'Hara.

"I didn't know he was this bad," said Guster, helping to lower Lassiter to the ground before taking a step back, giving the detective some room.

O'Hara sat in front of Lassiter, and just as she had done earlier, she took his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. She kept her fingers moving, brushing against his skin, keeping his attention on her. "Breathe, Carlton. Breathe with me."

He tried to focus. He really did. His vision blurred, with what, he wasn't sure. His mouth opened, words caught in his throat, his lungs still vacant.

And then it happened, a breath so strong he almost fell backward.

"And another one."

Two panic attacks in one day. Lassiter was pissed. At himself. At his fear. He pushed away, falling to his side, then onto his back as his lungs thrived. "I'm . . . fine."

O'Hara knew what Lassiter was doing, allowed him to do it. He needed to keep his pride, in front of her, in front of Spencer and Guster. She waited him out, letting him get his attack under control, his breath back.

"Dude," said Spencer. "You are not fine."

"Can it . . . Spencer, before I . . ."

Spencer, who had been standing behind Lassiter, stepped around the detective, looking down at him. "I'm serious, Lassie. I know how you feel. I once got stuck in a small water cooler with a raccoon-"

"It was a small pool, Shawn," said Guster.

"I've heard it both ways."

"Don't," said Lassiter, struggling to sit up. "Someone hit me. Knocked me out."

"You don't need to make excuses, Lassie."

Lassiter jerked back in surprise when Spencer bent down and hugged him, helping him up into a sitting position. Lassiter was so shocked he froze, almost feeling as though he were going through another panic attack. He quickly came back to his senses, pushing Spencer away. "Spencer! What in the hell . . . are you doing?"

O'Hara, still sitting in front of Lassiter, couldn't stop the smile spreading across her face. "Shawn. Someone did hit him. He was unconscious for at least thirty minutes."

"Okay, Jules, anything that will help," said Spencer, turning and walking into the barn. "Time to go to work. Jules, Lassie, care to join me?"

Hell no. Lassiter wasn't going back in there. He was going back to his car where he would shut himself in, away from the barn, away from the cow. He began to push himself back up onto unsteady legs but hands, rough and smooth, insisted he stayed down.

Guster, kneeling beside Lassiter, said, "If you were knocked unconscious, you might have a concussion. You need to stay down."

Lassiter snapped. "I don't have a concussion!"

"Then it was a panic attack," said Guster.

"I may have a concussion."

"Carlton," said O'Hara, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Stay here. I'll go inside with Shawn. Gus, you should stay here with him."

Guster frowned and stood up. "Shawn might need me."

"Jules!" Spencer's voice drifted out of the barn. "You did not tell me Flannery was dead!"

"Flannery's dead?" said Guster.

"Yeah," said Lassiter. "Brains, bone and blood. Lots of brains."

Guster paled. "I'll stay here with Lassiter."

Lassiter watched as his partner walked into the barn and when she disappeared inside he let himself fall backward, landing with a grunt, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Calm. Stay. Calm. You're out. You're okay. Stay. Calm. It was a hard thing to do. If that cow had moved . . . He needed to get the hell out of there. He needed to find his gun. Opening his eyes, Lassiter pushed himself upward, his legs trembling beneath him, his balance shifting like a child learning to walk.

"Stay down, Lassiter," said Guster.

"I need to find my gun."

"What you need to do is to stay down."

Lassiter stretched to his full height, at least a couple of inches taller than Guster and leaned forward. His body swayed as Guster shifted in and out of focus. He didn't want to step around Guster, worried that his own feet would turn against him, become tangled, tripping him. "Get out of my way."

"No, Juliet said-"

Pushing Guster aside, Lassiter began to walk away, toward the side of the barn, his feet clumsy and his knees threatening to collapse. He had to find his gun. If that dead cow stood up . . . He needed protection, needed to be able to shoot the animal if it attacked. Lassiter knew he was going insane, his mind breaking under the pressure. He was almost around the corner when he heard Spencer's voice.

"Prepared to be amazed!"

Lassiter stalled and turned around, his right hand reaching, searching for something that would hold him up, keep him from falling. He flinched when Guster appeared in front of him, arms out ready to catch him. Lassiter grimaced, his expression telling Guster to move out of the way. Guster did move; a step closer, taking Lassiter by the arm, supporting Lassiter's weight. As much as Lassiter wanted to pull his arm out of Guster's hand, he didn't, afraid that he'd lose his balance. Instead he waited for Spencer to appear because he was _not_ going back into that barn.

Spencer stepped out of the barn a few seconds later, his fingers hovering beside his temple. O'Hara stepped up beside him, an expression of frustration on her face but when she saw her partner struggling in Guster's grip she moved toward him, her steps short and quick. She thanked Guster with a look and took her partner's arm, standing beside him when Guster moved toward Spencer.

"You okay?" said O'Hara.

Lassiter narrowed his gaze and stared at her, his silence speaking volumes. O'Hara returned the stare until Lassiter looked away, back toward Spencer and waited for the idiot to tell him something he already knew. He didn't have to wait long.

"Flannery's cows were killed here, in this barn and then-"

"We know the how, Spencer. We're not blind," said Lassiter, rolling his eyes and turning away from Spencer, his partner, stepping around the corner of the barn; his intention to find his gun and then leave. The faster the better.

"Shawn," said O'Hara, wanting to follow her partner, hesitating long enough to question Spencer. "Do you know who killed Flannery?"

"I do believe E.T is still on the line, blocking all incoming calls and premonitions."

"Idiot," said Lassiter as he continued to move along the side of the barn, left hand against the wall, supporting his weight. He could still hear the conversation, unable to ignore it as it continued.

"It was worth a try, Shawn," said O'Hara, her voice closer than Lassiter had expected. He looked back over his shoulder and saw them. They were following him, getting so close to him as they continued to talk. "Lassiter saw his attacker's boots. Maybe we can get a clue from-"

"Were they biker boots, buckle with a gray alien on the side?" said Spencer. "E.T has left the building. It was Isit. The good, or as we now know, the bad-"

"And the ugly," said Guster.

"-doctor killed Flannery."

Lassiter froze, his hand against the side of the barn, his breath, once again, caught in his throat. He didn't know how the idiot did it but damn, he was right. The color he had seen on the side of the boot . . . The head of an alien, gray in color. Isit killed and mutilated Flannery's cows and bulls. Isit killed Flannery. Lassiter's gut instinct had been right. He smiled. He was going to enjoy arresting the wig-wearing-Doris Day-look alike-alien-believing idiot.

His shitty day was finally getting better.

.

.

.

TBC

**Author's Note**: During a discussion with lj user="tpena19" she kindly told me of her experience of being chased by a cow. The following dialogue used in this story was her description of what it was like to be chased by a cow:

_'Cows can be damn scary. Scares the crap out of you. They're faster and meaner than you think. They have short stamina and they don't corner well. I've been saved by a fence, a haystack, a horse and Hank. And trust me, the image of a large bovine, head down, and charging you, it stays in your mind a long time. Most cattle are mellow and they're not interested in humans at all but there are some who just seem to hate people and have no trouble letting them know it._'


End file.
